SOS
by wobbear
Summary: Scintilla of sadness―story over, sweeties. GSR
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** SOS  
**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** General/K  
**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and its characters aren't mine; the story is.  
**Author's note:** This is the first chapter of a short WIP. It has not had the benefit of a beta … why? Because it's been ages since I last posted and I'm an idiot. That pretty much sums it up.

**Summary:** Sara left. She is in the San Francisco area. What happens? GSR

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Chapter 1

It's a prosaic sight. An every day occurrence.

Gil comes out of the bathroom after a shower, body dried and boxer-clad, hair still damp, curls combed. Selects a shirt from the closet, pulls it on and does the buttons from the top down. Or one button, up, for a polo shirt. Chooses the pants of the day — or picks them up from the chair if he's recycling yesterday's — and steps into them, left leg first, always the left. Tucks the shirt in, left side, back and right side, in that order, before doing up the pants at the waist. Zip up. Next the belt, brown or black depending on the day's ensemble. He does up the belt, testing to see if he's lost enough weight to move to the tighter hole. Then sits on the blue chair to pull on socks, toe into shoes. Standing up, he clips phone onto belt, drops keys into the right front pocket, slips slim wallet into the left one. After that, a general check that all is in order. Then last, but definitely not least, he carefully places a neatly pressed and folded square of cotton in the left hip pocket. And buttons the pocket closed, if there's a button.

And to complete the picture, Sara is lying on their bed, sipping coffee, idly watching Gil prepare for his day … night … whatever.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Such a familiar scene, so clear in her mind's eye.

Sara sighed.

He was over 500 miles away.

She missed him.

Oh, she missed him so.

Every minute, every hour.

Every second.

Even his mundane little routines, which at first she had scoffed about. Their consistency, regularity. He had simply smiled at her with tolerant eyes, and continued on steadily, secure in the knowledge of what worked for him.

She always showered and dressed first, which freed her to watch the floor show, as she privately called it. Not that she was completely ready herself; she always finished up just before she left.

She would lie there relaxing, as he methodically got organized for work. He never criticized later, when he was ready to leave, as she rushed about the house looking for one shoe, her pager, her good hairbrush. He would just offer a quiet suggestion like, "Did you check the coffee table?" then stand back as the Sara whirlwind swirled through the place.

After her frantic searching was over, they would meet at the door to the garage, and join hands, hug for a moment or simply smile at each other — quietly reveling in the fact they were there together. Then Gil would open the door and stand back, gesturing with his hand for Sara to go first. And so they'd move on, getting on with their day, their life.

After one particularly hectic pre-work flurry of hers, Sara was reflecting as he drove them to the lab. When they were stopped at a traffic light she wiggled around in the passenger's seat to face Gil and asked, "D'you miss your peaceful life?

He shook his head, a glimmer of a grin hovering on his lips.

"C'mon, you can tell me. Just a tiny bit?"

"No. NO. It was monotonous, boring." He checked the lights and looked across at her. "Barren." He shook his head again for emphasis. "Not peaceful."

She kinked a not completely convinced eyebrow at him and he glanced at the rear view mirror, considering. After a lengthy pause he came back with, "It was more … predictable, but predictability is over-rated." He cocked his head shyly and admitted, "It wasn't really living."

Just as the light finally turned green he reached over with his right hand to squeeze her thigh.

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It was a little-known fact. Not that it was particularly weird or perverse, and it was far from being criminal. Gil didn't hide it, but he didn't flaunt it either. It was what it was.

He ironed his handkerchiefs. Which meant he actually owned handkerchiefs. No Kleenex for Gilbert Grissom. Large cotton squares, mostly plain white (which Sara secretly thought boring), muted plaids and a few checkered ones. And, for best, white linen finery with GG embroidered in one corner. He used them, he washed them — using non-chlorine bleach when he deemed it necessary — and what's more he ironed them.

Sara had given him a hard time at first, convinced of the hygienic benefits of disposable tissues. He had countered with pure natural fibers, drying them in the hot Nevada sun and the pressing heat of the iron killing any bacteria. The gentleness of the fine fabric. Saving trees.

That last one he said with a knowing smirk.

The plain truth was that he was used to handkerchiefs, he liked them and he found the simple act of ironing and folding them into tidy squares restful, somehow therapeutic. Hearing that, Sara gave up her protests. He'd obviously thought about it a lot. It was another little facet of the man she loved, and that was that.

He hadn't converted her, not at first, but they had both been happy maintaining their status quo. Live and let live was a large part of their modus vivendi.

She was chaotic, he had handkerchiefs. Sara snorted at the thought.

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There was a sudden jolt and Sara opened her eyes as the Muni railcar rattled to a halt. Ocean Beach, the end of the N line. She had barely noticed as they had trundled along Judah Street. Was the route that she'd chosen trying to tell her something?

Again she heard Gil's voice in her head, insisting, "You're no Judas. You're betraying no-one. You're doing what you need to do." After a pause he added, "I love you. Now and forever. Remember that."

Sara squared her shoulders and drew in a deep breath of the salty air, trying to distract herself from her tender, tantalizing, tearing memories. Despite his encouraging approach, that had been a hard phone call.

Over her shoulder she slung her canvas satchel, a souvenir of her recent traipse through a bazaar-like store in Chinatown, and waited behind the other passengers as they negotiated the deep steps down to the curb. The trio of teenagers, who looked like they were playing hooky from school, leapt down first and sauntered towards the Java Beach Café. They teased each other self-consciously, their loud nervous laughs carrying on the breeze.

The sparsely-bearded young guy in the army surplus jacket loped in the direction of the Golden Gate Park; the elderly Chinese woman, black-garbed and bow-legged, limped off to the left. Again, always, Sara found herself being reminded of Gil, in the most unlikely places.

Whenever she thought of him it was a bitter-sweet experience; while she clung tightly to her cherished memories of their life together, they were tinged with the dark shadows she knew she had cast by fleeing.

Gil said he understood why she'd left as she had, but try as he might he couldn't hide the hurt, the sorrow he felt at her departure, and the fear in his voice that she might never return. No matter how supportive his words, she still felt guilty about it, she worried that she had damaged him, them beyond repair. And he kept trying to convince her otherwise.

Sara's ruminations were interrupted by the foghorn sound which signaled a new text message.

GG: Still on shift

She checked the time and speedily replied.

SS: Sleep overdue surely?

GG: YAWN

SS: Set others searching

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It had started after their first phone conversation, with Gil insisting that he would wait for her, be available every hour, every day, whenever she wanted to contact him, by phone, by email, IM. And if she sent him an SOS, he would go to her in a flash. Or, he clarified, ever precise, as fast as he could humanly get there.

Somehow that had morphed into them exchanging these non-emergency SOS messages. They did speak every so often, but this was how they connected on a daily basis, giving an idea of what was going on, how they were feeling.

When Sara was eating at a whole foods café —

SS: superlative organic sandwich

GG: spinach or sprouts?

Gil dealing with politicians —

GG: stupid ornery sycophants

SS: sidestep obvious strife

Sara enjoying the end of a rainy spell —

SS: sunshine on shoulders

GG: sunscreen on skin?

And when he was missing her most —

GG: sadness of solitude

SS: so overwhelmingly sorry

When the messages became too cryptic or melancholy, they knew it was time to talk again.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

They had developed this sort of rule or perhaps more of a habit — whoever started the exchange of texts, the other finished it. So Sara decided to leave it there for the moment. Gil sounded overworked and she had to get off the street car.

She was already wearing sunglasses; after several foggy days the sun was shining, and the glare was hard on her eyes. That had to be why they were watering.

She allowed herself that little denial.

And patted her left hip pocket.

Sara jumped down to the sidewalk, checked for traffic then strode across the pavement. Following the winding path she made her way up and over the dunes onto the beach. A brisk breeze — those unaccustomed to the coast might have called it a wind — whipped strands of hair over her face. Sara quickly gathered it together into a rough ponytail, using a hair elastic that she dug out of her jeans pocket. She zipped her jacket up against the cooler air rolling off the waves then, somewhat perversely perhaps, sat on the sand to take off her sneakers. Her feet could warm up again afterwards. Stuffing her socks into the toes, she tied the laces together and hung the shoes over her bag.

She wasn't going to paddle; even in the height of summer the water was cool, but for her, walking on beaches required bare feet. Sara snorted faintly at the thought. Maybe she didn't have routines like Gil's, but this was certainly a long-entrenched habit of hers.

_Huh._

_Different strokes. _

She glanced left and right, deciding which way to go. North. Turning right she headed toward the cliffs with the white blocky shape of Cliff House rising above. Out from there stood Seal Rock.

The tide was on the way out, the sand glistening as the water receded. That's where she walked. She loved the smooth, giving firmness of the wet sand, how it gently sucked at her bare soles and released with each step, the way her footprints lingered for a moment then gradually disappeared as the damp grains re-found their level. After a couple of minutes she stopped and turned, looking back at her tracks. As she watched the more distant impressions were filling in, fading away. The sand was losing all trace of the person who had just passed over it.

Nothing lasts forever.

That can be a good thing.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** SOS  
**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** General/K  
**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and its characters aren't mine; the story is.  
**Author's note:** Heaping thank yous to **smacky30** for her clear-thinking beta work on this chapter. Thanks also to everyone who read the first chapter despite the less than inspiring summary. I couldn't write a decent summary to save my life, but I can play with them.

**Summary:** Sara left and Grissom is bereft. What happens next? GSR

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Chapter 2

Sara meandered along the beach, picking up a shell here, toeing over a water-sodden branch there, stopping to watch as air holes formed in the wet sand, then closed up. Again and again. What tiny creatures lay beneath? Gil would know. Maybe if he came to visit …

Eventually she found herself across from Seal Rock. Nestling into a little hollow at the edge of a dune, she sat down, digging her cold toes into the sand until her feet were covered. It wasn't exactly warm, but she could no longer feel the cool breeze on her damp skin, and gradually sensation began to return to her feet.

Seagulls were wheeling above the waves, occasionally landing to peck at something uncovered by the ebbing tide. She stared balefully at them, remembering the day she had gone to Sausalito to meet a friend from Harvard.

Julie had moved from Boston to the "left coast", as she persisted in calling it, two years before with her partner Matthew, a chef. He'd said he wanted to cook fresh Pacific fish for a change, and they had both been hankering after milder winters.

The two women had enjoyed a delicious lunch at Poggio, with chef Matt managing to escape the kitchen long enough to gulp down a quick espresso with them. On the ferry back Sara chose a seat at the stern, enjoying the salty tang of the Bay air and texting Gil about her day.

SS: Sara ordered spaghetti

GG: Should others salivate?

SS: Surely one should. Stern of ship.

GG: Sea of serenity?

Just as Sara was starting to write "swell of sorts", she heard a mewling cry above, a shadow passed over her and she felt a heavy liquid drip hit her shoulder. "Shit!" she muttered under her breath, mindful of the children nearby. Then, despite her annoyance, she laughed wryly at how apt her word choice had been.

GG: sound of silence??

SS: stupid old seagull!

GG: smear on shirt?

SS: spot on, scientist

GG: Shout(R) outs stains :)

Hee. Laundry advice from Gil. He was a many-faceted man. He'd been right, of course.

Sara smiled at the memory.

After wriggling her toes in the sand for a while, causing mini dune-quakes for her own entertainment, Sara leaned back on her elbows and looked over the low waves to Seal Rock. The onshore breeze carried with it the yelping barks of the sea lions that made their home there. Luckily they were far enough away for their distinctive aroma not to travel so well.

The breeze kicked up a little sand and aimed it unerringly for her left eye. As she blinked to encourage tears, Sara lifted her left hip and pulled a small lime green handkerchief out of her hip pocket. After some moments of painfully fluttering her eyelid, the scratchy interlopers were flushed out and she wiped them and the protective liquid away. It was refreshing, she reflected, to be crying without the tearing ache of sadness choking her throat. She had cried so much, _too much_, recently. But times were changing, and for the better.

Tucking the bright cloth back into her pocket, Sara remembered the day Gil returned from California, his second trip to sort out his mother's belongings. He had approached her tentatively.

Sara was comfortably lounging in the Eames chair, feet up, reading _Death at la Fenice_ and wondering about a trip to Italy. Venice, specifically. She was giving him space, leaving him to sort out the things he'd brought back with him. A few days later, she knew, he would want to show her the mementos, to recount to her (for him?) memories of his mom. But first he needed some time alone, to get used to seeing things from his past in their new surroundings.

Yet there he was, walking toward her with his hands behind his back. He seemed wary, uncertain, which made her all the more curious. Pitching her tone at light and casual, she put down the book as she asked, "Whatcha got there?"

Slowly he came over and Sara moved her legs on the ottoman to give him room to sit down. Hesitant, he showed her what he held so carefully in his hands. He cleared his throat, but his voice was still faint, far away. He was remembering his mother again; she knew the signs. "She's had this for as long as I can remember … would you … I know you won't want to use them, but some of them are quite, uh, pretty … and it's, uh … I don't want to give them to Goodwill." The tenderness, the vulnerability in his eyes, his voice melted her heart all over again; refusing his plea was simply not an option.

She opened the little fabric package, and carefully extracted the contents, one by one. "This … they're gorgeous, Gil."

As he smiled his shy, beautiful smile his eyes were glistening, and he swallowed, unable to speak.

"You don't need to say anything, Gil. I'd be honored to have them."

As he leaned forward to drop a soft kiss on her lips, he whispered, "Thank you."

xxxxxxx

Truth to tell, they weren't all gorgeous. Some were downright utilitarian, ranging from solid primary colors to cheery floral prints. But the fancy ones were to treasure — some more lace than woven cloth, handcrafted in the Orient decades before "made in China" became synonymous with cheap and machine made. Others bore delicate embroidery on gossamer fabric, so fine it was almost transparent. But they all meant something to Gil, and that was enough for Sara. Well, it was after she'd washed the heirloom hankies using a process fairly similar to the one she used for sterilizing the tools from her kit. Gil insisted on ironing them for her, then she carefully tucked them safely back into their linen envelope.

A few days later, watching Gil as he dressed, she decided she might as well put one in her hip pocket too. Just in case. One of the practical ones. Hers were much smaller than Gil's flag-like ones, but then so were her pockets. She chose bright red.

She'd gotten into the habit of carrying them. Occasionally they came in handy. And Gil always ironed them for her.

xxxxxxx

It was nearly Christmas. To the outside observer, Grissom was doing all right.

Even Catherine, who had been observing him more closely than most, had to admit that he seemed to be doing okay despite Sara's abrupt departure. He had actually agreed to have Christmas dinner with her and Lindsey, which she counted as a major coup.

Catherine was wrong.

Decades of concealing his feelings were standing Grissom in good stead. He was fooling everyone, himself included. He was holding things together at work, but at home things were slipping. The dog still got fed and walked, because he whined gently when Grissom neglected him. But less vital things fell by the wayside. Handkerchiefs were getting left in pockets, or washed and tossed into a growing ironing pile, away in a dark corner of the closet. Out of sight out of mind, much like his emotions, which he tamped down and avoided dealing with as best he could.

When, a few weeks before, Brass had been fishing for news of Sara, Grissom had done what he swore he would never do: he'd lied to a friend. He said that he had talked to Sara, and that she was in "San Francisco, visiting her mother." The latter part might have actually been true. Only the talking part was an out-and-out fabrication; he'd blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

But it went against his grain to lie, and when Brass pressed, worried about them both, Grissom couldn't do it any more. He was horrified at his lying, but was unwilling to face the sympathy that telling the truth would bring. After some evasion and obstruction, Grissom escaped.

That had been a bad day. A really bad day.

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It was only when he found himself borrowing Kleenex from Catherine during a sneezing fit at a dusty crime scene that Grissom woke up, shaking himself out of his self-induced stupor. He realized that, for his own sanity, he had to return to basics, to cling to the familiarity of his tried and tested routines. It had worked before, maybe it would work again. He needed to pull himself together while he waited, hoping that Sara would work her way past her ghosts.

And come back.

Back to him.

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Man on a mission, at home after shift he gathered up all the handkerchiefs he could find. He even retrieved from the closet in the spare room a hamper full of washing that Sara had left behind. He had been avoiding it long enough. Tipping the contents out on top of the drier he sorted through, finding some of his handkerchiefs mixed in with her things. There were also several of those Sara had inherited from his mother. He blinked away the sudden moisture as he searched through his own clothes, locating more in various pants pockets. He added them to the pile.

Once the washing was in the machine, Grissom picked up his cell phone and pressed the speed dial for Jim Brass. He didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed when the call went to voicemail.

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After Brass finished his meeting with the Sheriff, he checked his messages and heard Grissom's distinctive voice—unusually subdued and faltering.

"Uh, Jim. I need to … what I mean is … I haven't spoken to Sara since she left. At all. I lied to you, and I'm sorry. So … now you know. Uh …" There was a long pause, then the end of message bleep sounded.

Brass nodded sadly. He'd suspected as much. Grissom wasn't as inscrutable as he thought he was.

So far his attempts to get Grissom to open up over a bottle of Scotch hadn't worked, but he would try again soon. Maybe on New Year's Eve. That would be a difficult time for Grissom.

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Grissom opened the top drawer, which still held much of Sara's lingerie, a number of the T-shirts she had co-opted from him for sleeping in, and socks. That she had left so much behind gave him some hope she would come back. Or would she eventually ask him to send the stuff on? That didn't bear thinking about. He tried to push that idea aside and got back to his immediate task. He didn't see it at first, so moved things around gently, searching. Had she taken it with her? Underneath a faded blue Cubs T-shirt he found what he was looking for.

The linen envelope, about five inches by ten, with decorative stitching around the edges and little appliquéd flowers brightening the flap. Picking up the little pile he had brought with him from the ironing board, he opened the flap.

He stopped, stared, his heart thumping in his ears.

Absently he put the freshly ironed handkerchiefs back down on the top of the dresser, still looking at the unexpected … thing.

A piece of Sara's favorite recycled writing paper, folded.

Only one word was visible.

_Gil,_

His name, in Sara's distinctive hand.

In black ink.

With a comma after it.

Taking several breaths which failed to calm his pulse, he bit his lip and reached out a trembling hand. Slowly he pulled the page out of its hiding place. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his courage. Jaw clenched, he opened the folded sheet.

It was dated the day before she left. The numerals he could read, but the rest was fuzzy.

Damn. Where were his glasses? Fumbling, he dragged them out of his pocket.

_Gil,_

_I hope you find this soon. Knowing you, you will. Not long after the next time you do laundry. If you do find this, it means I'm gone. As I sit here writing I can picture me failing to follow through, and retrieving this, destroying it before you see it. It's so hard to think of leaving you, knowing how much my going will hurt you. That's the only reason I doubt my resolve._

_I want so much to talk to you, to try to explain why I'm doing this, but I can only be coherent — semi-coherent — on paper. I'm writing a letter to leave for you at the lab, but I know you'll__ need more._

_I can't speak to you because I don't want to break down and have you comfort me with your worried eyes and protective arms, because that would make leaving you even harder. It's tearing me up because we've shared so much, we've opened up about some of our deepest fears and insecurities, and now — I can't help but feel I'm dishonoring the special bond we've forged. Yet, I can't do it any other way. _

_You want so much to take my trouble from me, to bear it for me._

"Yes, I do. I still can, Sara," he whispered.

_And I love you all the more for that. But you can't. No-one can. It's in me, it's mine, and I have to deal with it, or get past it somehow._

She was right, but he didn't like feeling powerless. Even now, a thought he knew was futile surged in his aching head, 'Surely there's something I can do. Something I should have done.'

Emotion trumped logic yet again. Sara did that to him.

Then, as if she were reading his mind, Sara continued.

_Please, please don't think you did something wrong, or didn't do something you could have. Do NOT blame yourself. I haven't told you what I was struggling with, although you nudged me so many times to say whatever it was. I can hear your urgent whisper now, "Tell me, honey, tell me. You'll feel better when you let it out." _

That was the end of the page, but he could see the impression of further writing on the other side. Grissom sighed, wondering if he had the strength for this, while he watched himself turning the letter over. He looked up, glancing unseeing around the room as he prepared to read on. His mind's eye was still fixed on the letter.

_I have this feeling that if I were to tell you, I would shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. And the thought of you scrabbling on the floor, trying to pick the pieces up and glue them back together, with grains of me streaming through your fingers like sand in a hour glass, inevitably, inexorably … turning to quick sand and sucking us both into it … it's more than I could bear. I can't do that to you. I'm mixing metaphors now and I can see you holding back a frown at that. _

Grissom paused, drawing in a shuddering breath and trying to swallow the lump rising in his throat. Unspoken thoughts churned inside him. 'God, Sara. I'm not frowning at mixed metaphors. I'm leaning against the dresser choking back sobs and holding your letter out so my tears don't bleed the ink and blur your words.'

He bowed his head and closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand as he tried to gather himself. The letter was still tightly clutched in his hand, and flapped faintly as he struggled to gain control. After several heaving breaths he straightened up and focused once more on the gray and brown-flecked page.

There was more.

_Sorry, I got off track. I'm trying to see this not as me running away from here, from you, but as a path to something better. For both of us. _

_You must know this. I want to come back, back to you. When I'm whole again—or at least when I can hold myself together._

_Gil, my only love, I hope that you will find it in your loving, constant heart to forgive me for doing this. For leaving you without warning. Can you give me the time to get past this? _

_I was wrong before when I said there was nothing anyone else can do. There __is__ something._

"Anything, Sara, anything," He whispered as his eager eyes hurried on down the page.

_Only if you want to. It's up to you. I've got a new cell phone—if you want to, if you feel you can, please call me. _

_I'll be waiting, hoping for your call. But no matter what you decide, know this: I love you. _

_Now._

_Always_

—_Sara_

There was some faint circular marks on the page, and a few words were distorted where Sara's tears had made the ink bleed. Grissom said a silent thank you that the phone number was clear: 702-362-2162.

Sara had been wrong about more than one thing.

It had taken him five weeks to find the letter.

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It took him five seconds to phone her.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** SOS  
**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** General/K  
**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and its characters aren't mine; the story is.  
**Author's note:** Big thank you to **smacky30** for beta reading—I just hope that my tweaking didn't undermine your good work. Thanks also to **CSI Clue**; she knows why.

**Summary:** Sara departed and Grissom is brokenhearted. What happens next? GSR

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Chapter 3

Sara had rented a studio apartment in the Sunset district of San Francisco. None of her memories were tied to the area so it was a good neutral base for her forays back into her childhood. That was the whole point of this … whatever it was she was doing. This endeavor. It wasn't easy, not by far, but that wasn't the hardest thing.

She hadn't heard from Gil.

It had been more than a month. Was he trying to give her space or had he given up on her? In her heart of hearts she refused to believe the latter, but the circumstantial evidence was worrying. He hadn't called. She tried not to dwell on it. Instead she pushed on in her quest, but as the initial distress of her departure waned and Christmas got closer, the temptation to find out how he was grew stronger. Maybe she could phone Brass.

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It wasn't until Sara's phone was ringing that Grissom remembered her other letter, and the "goodbye" which had seemed so final. But the chance of speaking to her pushed any other concerns aside.

"Gil?" She knew it was his number on the screen; but she could scarcely believe her eyes. "I was just thinking about you."

Sara. He gulped. Of all the times to be tongue-tied.

Grissom finally found his voice. "I just found your letter. The one with your phone number."

He just found it? That was why he hadn't called before? She shook her head, incredulous. "You … just found it?"

"Yeah." How to explain it? "Well … ironing handkerchiefs hasn't been high on my priority list lately."

As Sara absorbed his words, relief and despair warred within her. She had been so wrong. What had she done to him, to them?

"Uh … Sara?"

"You mean …?" She knew what he meant. "Since I left."

"Mmmm." He sighed out a breath then agreed, "Since you left."

He insisted he was all right. Insisted firmly. Vehemently. Then his voice cracked and she heard his deliberate breaths as he tried to compose himself. "It's just … I miss you honey, and I worry about you." Another breath. Or was it a sigh? The words started flowing out as if a dam had burst. "I can't stop. Even though I know you have to do this for you, maybe even for us, part of me just wants to have you here with me, to hold you in my arms and never let you go. I--I can't help it."

Sara had been nodding in agreement as he spoke, then the silence stretched out as that final thought floated on the airwaves between them. Suddenly Sara realized she hadn't spoken. She blurted, "Gil … I feel the same way."

"Can I … not now, not yet … but … sometime, when you're ready … come see you? Just for a day, an hour even …" He sighed and she closed her eyes, overwhelmed at his forgiving nature. He continued, sounding disheartened at her lack of response, "Maybe it's a bad idea. Sorry, forget I said it. I--"

"No, no, I'd love that. _Love_ it. I--I'm … finding it hard to speak." Her voice rose into a squeak as tears streamed down her face.

He could hear Sara sniffing, her breathy gasps filtering through the phone, and he forced himself to relax. Strangely, the sound of her distress calmed him. He no longer felt alone; she was struggling as much as he. Probably more. Unfolding from his hunched position on the edge of the sofa, he turned, raising his legs and stretching them out as he lay back, stuffing a pillow under his head. She needed him to be strong, constant in his love for her, unwavering in his support. And he wanted to do that. He would. No matter how much it hurt.

"Sara … I understand. Remember, you can call me, text, email, whenever you want. And when … if you feel ready for me to visit, let me know." I'll try not to hassle you about it, he thought. He paused, biting his lip as he pondered. Keep things simple. She needed to hear it. "I love you. I always will. Remember that."

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As she sat on the beach, Sara looked back at the last four months and felt a sense of satisfaction. It had taken a while, but some of her worst ghosts were fading. She was coming to realize, though, that they would never completely leave her, she would never be completely free of them. Gil's words, in that first phone call last December, came back to her. Again.

"Good or bad, they're part of what made you the amazing, beautiful, courageous woman that you are. Accept them for what they are, don't let them control you. They don't own you; they can't dictate what you do. Look at everything you've achieved. I'm so proud of you, honey."

She remembered hearing his voice, urgently trying to convince her. And opening her tear-swollen eyes, momentarily disoriented, expecting to see his intense blue gaze upon her, warm, worried. She recalled shuddering with the force of her emotion, and wishing Gil was there to draw her into his enveloping embrace.

She hadn't been convinced then, but his words had kept replaying in her head, bouncing into her consciousness when she least expected it. It was as if he had imprinted his thoughts on her mind. But far from being an irritant, their constant presence was a comfort. Even when she didn't believe them, she knew Gil did. And she trusted him. He was the best person she knew.

Somehow his words had helped her get to where she was now. She had forced herself to go back to the old places, the ones which had so long haunted her nightmares.

She'd once listened to Catherine and Nick talking about how everything always seemed smaller when you went back to childhood haunts. She had wondered at the time if that were true. She had no way of knowing. She'd never gone back. Until now.

Her anticipation had been worse than reality. Cath and Nick had been correct and, better still, the distance wrought by age, experience and time had weakened the power of her memories. The house, the shed and the local store that had loomed so large in her childhood were all still there, but their power had been diminished by time.

Diekmann's General Store bore a recent coat of paint; the house on John Street was shabby, its garden overgrown. The pink tricycle on the front porch was unexpected, but Sara found it full of hope. The shed was just a shed, with a bright blue 10-speed leaning against the side. She spotted a lawnmower in the back yard, at the end of a mown swath. Pruning tools lay just outside the shed door. It looked like a family was starting a new life here. Sara pondered that for a moment then silently wished them luck. Walking back around the corner to where she'd parked the rental car, she felt lighter. That was when she started to truly understand what Gil had said and that he had been right. Confronting her memories, rather than running away from them, was starting to give her a sense of control.

On another trip back to northern Marin county she had taken a huge step in her recovery. On the other side of Shoreline Highway, across from the John Street house, was 44 Dillon Beach Road. The old B&B. The Sidle family's last home. Where they self-destructed.

The house was now in the hands of a very welcoming gay couple, who had transformed it. The once drafty and creaky old house had been transformed into a stylish but cozy oasis of peace. They had gutted the place, keeping only the Victorian façade, and re-built it from the floor joists up. The redesign had so altered the floor plan that her memories had no place there. Tom and Dale, the sweeties, had pampered her and urged her to stay as long as she wanted, but she knew she had to move on. It was part of her healing process. She did, however, call in to see them on subsequent visits to the area. She told them it was because of the pulling power of Dale's banana walnut muffins, but she knew it was really their undemanding, always welcoming company that drew her back.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sara's mind was wandering freely as she contemplated all that had happened since she left Las Vegas. Through it all, after that terrible, wonderful first phone call, Gil had been true to his plan. Never pushing, but always keeping in touch.

GG: Scotch on sofa

SS: sipping or spilling?

GG: sport on screen

That wasn't really an answer, but sipping seemed more likely. Sara knew that Gil was inclined to have a light Scotch an hour or two before bed if he'd been having problems sleeping.

SS: sleeping okay solo?

GG: subtlety of sledgehammer

He quickly followed that up.

GG: same old stressors

A moment later, when Sara was contemplating how to respond, her phone rang.

"Don't worry about me. I just need to wind down after work."

"Can I at least be concerned?"

She could hear the smile in his voice as he replied, "I'm counting on it, sweetheart."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Another day, another trip North. After sitting for a time in the rental car in front of Tomales Elementary School, which was closed for the weekend, Sara headed for nearby Point Reyes, in search of coffee and maybe a snack. Tom and Dale had a full house at the B&B this weekend, and she didn't want to get in their way. They'd raved about Station House Café and this seemed like a great chance to try it. Locking the car, she glanced across the road and blinked in surprise.

There, sitting at a rickety table in the pale winter sun outside the Café, was the woman who had been the Tomales school librarian in Sara's day. So many times Isabelle Tokay had gone the extra mile to source books to fuel Sara's voracious mind, encouraging her to look far beyond her home situation with an eclectic range of suggested reading. And she had always let Sara into the library before the official opening hour in the morning and arranged with the janitor for her to stay after everyone had left, until he had finished his cleaning rounds. To this day, the word "library" reminded Sara of that out-of-hours haven of quiet calm, her refuge from family strife.

Clenching her fists, Sara approached the woman tentatively. It had been more than 20 years. Would Ms Tokay even remember her? The subject of her nervous wondering was oblivious, head bent over a spiral notebook, writing intently. Sara stopped a few feet away, taking in the head of thick brown hair she recalled, now speckled with gray, the reading glasses—they were new too—and the capable hands she'd seen carefully cradling hundreds of books. "Ms Tokay? I--I—"

That face Sara recalled so well, alive with intelligence, looked up and enquiring eyes lit on her.

"Sara!"

All at once Sara found herself enveloped in a warm embrace. Then a chair was being pulled out, she was sitting on it and being told, "Call me Izzy!"

Sara's grin was so wide she felt her face might crack. "And here I was, wondering if you'd remember me."

Izzy patted Sara's hand while inspecting her closely. Seemingly satisfied with what she saw, Izzy smiled warmly as she said, "I always remember the special ones. Sara, girl, you're the best."

Sara felt her eyes prickle and her throat choke up, and fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers to try and cover. She shook her head, unable to speak.

Izzy sat back and launched into a brief history of her life since they'd last seen each other, giving Sara a moment.

Now retired, but still vibrantly engaged in the community, the older woman enthused about her creative writing and her volunteer work, tutoring in the local adult literacy program. After a while, when Sara had gathered herself, Izzy gently urged her to speak about her life since she left the Tomales area. There was no mistaking her genuine interest and Sara, touched, gave Izzy a much edited resume, then as they lingered over coffee she found herself relaxing and revealing more.

"You know, I think about you every time I pick up a new book, one I haven't read. You were my one fond memory of that time. But I never thought you'd still be here." Sara sipped her latte as she reflected. "I guess, because I left, I wanted you to be gone from here too, away from the bad associations."

Izzy shrugged. "It was different for me. Getting some distance from the place made sense for you. Not that you had a whole lot of choice in the matter." She frowned slightly and pointed at the plate on the table. "Eat more of that bagel. You're still too skinny."

This was a familiar line coming from Izzy; she had often brought home baking into work with her and plied Sara and a few other students with it. Sara's mouth still watered at the thought of Izzy's dark and luscious chocolate cake.

It was strange. Somehow speaking to someone who wasn't a complete stranger, but who had no knowledge of her adult life, was almost cathartic. Sara could say whatever she wanted, whatever she needed, and found herself letting go of long-held fears and secrets as she rambled on. Occasionally Izzy patted her arm, once quietly waved at the server for more drinks and food, and Sara just kept on talking.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Before she went to sleep that night, thinking back over their conversation, Sara realized that the older woman knew more about Sara's life than she had let on. From tiny comments she had let slip, Sara realized Izzy knew about her going Berkeley after Harvard, becoming a CSI in San Francisco and even the move to Las Vegas. And the Natalie incident.

Rather than being freaked out, as she might have expected, Sara felt a warm glow of affection. Even though she hadn't known, all those years Izzy had been keeping track of her movements, to see what she was doing, how she was doing. Kind of like a benevolent stalker. Sara snorted. Whatever you called it, she liked the feeling that she mattered, in whatever small way, to Izzy.

A thought had been flickering at the back of Sara's mind since their meeting, something she couldn't quite grasp. Something about Izzy reminded of her something … someone. As she settled down to sleep, Sara finally realized. Similar acute intelligence and enquiring minds, both seekers of knowledge, with enduring concern for her. They were even about the same age. Sure there were differences, gender for a start. She was an extrovert, he much more reserved. Sara's relationship with one was platonic, the other quite the opposite. Izzy's eyes were a soft brown to his cornflower blue. But they shared the same essential humanity. It seemed so obvious now.

She picked up her cell phone and called Grissom to tell him about her day.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

A few days later the two women met again in the café — by chance? It was hard to say. Thanking Izzy for being such a good listener, Sara added, narrowing her eyes at the other woman, "You know, I have the impression that not everything I told you was news to you."

With a small smile and a one-shoulder shrug, Izzy said gently, "Yeah, so?"

Sara didn't feel the need to take it any further. She was starting to pick up the pieces, re-building her life—second-guessing other people was one of the many things she was trying to leave behind.

They fed the seagulls down by the water before they parted with heartfelt hugs, assuring each other they would stay in touch. And they meant it.

Izzy stood on the roadside, watching Sara get into the car and buckle up. Suddenly she bent down, knocking urgently on the window. Turning on the ignition, Sara pressed the button to lower it.

"Remember, I want to meet Gil when he's next here."

Sara grinned and nodded. She already promised at least twice. "I will. Hey, it's starting to rain, don't stay out here and get wet." Closing the window, she put the car into drive and left, beeping good bye.

Izzy stood in the increasing downpour, waving until Sara was out of sight.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** SOS  
**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** General/K  
Pairing: Grissom/Sara  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and its characters aren't mine; the story is.  
**Author's note:** If this fic is anything to go by, next summer I'll write one based in the Colorado Rockies. A tiny chunk of this may remind you of a recent drabble of mine. Renewed thanks to the wonderful smacky30 for beta reading.

**Summary:** Sara sidles away and Grissom is left in dismay. What happens next? GSR

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Chapter 4

The sun was sinking into the streaky stratus clouds that hugged the horizon. Ephemeral strokes of red, pink, purple and gold painted the sky as Sara checked the time. It was hard to believe she had been on the beach for three hours.

Much of that time she had slowly trailed along the hard wet sand one eye on the outgoing tide looking for rogue encroaching waves, the other watching for interesting shells. All the while her thoughts had been wandering through the past, recalling recent months and going way back to school days in Tomales Elementary School.

It was time to go. She stood up, brushing sand from her jeans, and turned back the way she had come.

It was at least a mile back to the Muni stop at Ocean Beach. The setting sun spread Sara's fantastically long shadow on the sand dunes; it kept her company as, cold and weary, she trudged alongside the waves. She glanced up occasionally at the darkening sky, marveling at how the colors changed from one second to the next. The sound of the sea filled her head as the rising wind whipped her hair across her face.

xxxxxxx

Another night, another crime scene. And his knees were protesting again. Grissom was crouching in a bath tub, dusting for prints and wondering why he hadn't gotten Greg to do it. Even as that thought ran through his mind, Grissom remembered that he had instructed Greg to search through the trash cans. He had spotted suspicious blood drops on the white plastic swing top bin in the kitchen, and outside the back door were three overflowing malodorous trash cans full of … who knows what. Greg would find out.

Graveyard had gotten called in early because swing shift had been decimated by the flu. Grissom's cynical theory was that most of them actually had heavy colds, but preferred to self-diagnose the more serious malady. Whichever it was, those CSIs weren't at work, and he had been dragged out of bed before his usual wake-up time. That wasn't unusual, but today it grated more than it normally did.

Grissom sighed. Giving himself the bathroom to process had seemed like a good idea at the time. The lesser of two evils. He may have been wrong. And now he had a cramp in his hip. Clamping the handle of the fingerprint brush between his teeth, he carefully positioned his hands one on either side of the bath. He flexed tentatively, to see if he had sufficient leverage to stand up.

Nope.

He hadn't been getting enough exercise recently, not since …

This was ridiculous. Fleetingly he thought of calling Greg in to help him out of the tub, before dismissing the idea. He wasn't sure what would be worse; the sheer ignominy, or seeing Greg's concern at his supervisor's incapacity. For a moment, just a moment, Grissom was furious with Sara. If she hadn't left, she would still be making him use the elliptical trainer, nudging him to do the weights every day, and he would be able to get out of this predicament without assistance.

As quickly as it had flared, the flame of rage died down and he stopped his silent rant. Shaking those pathetic thoughts out of his head and forcing his mind back to the present, Grissom looked around the bathroom.

For a house so dirty, a startling amount of Clorox had been used in this room in recent times. Everything he'd dusted came up with the swirl marks of an assiduous—and thus safely anonymous—wiping. Scanning the bath under UV light he had been almost blinded by the fluorescing signs of bleach.

He lifted his head and spotted the grab bar attached to the wall above the tub. Despite a thorough coating of Red Creeper, he'd found no usable prints there either. Grissom reached up with one hand, wincing as he squirmed awkwardly past the dagger of pain in his hip. Shoving mightily against the rim of the bath with his other hand, he hauled himself to his feet. He knocked his elbow on the tiled wall on the way up, but at last he was standing. Still in the bath, but it was progress.

He was still standing there, rubbing his arm, when Greg came back inside. "Grissom?"

"Y—" He cleared his throat, wondering why it felt so scratchy. "Yeah, Greg?"

"There's so much trash, I think we need to take the cans back to the lab, sift through it in the garage."

"Uh, okay, call for a truck. Don't want to transport that stench with us. I'm about finished here; we can work the other rooms together."

As Greg turned away, pressing buttons on his cell phone, Grissom's own device warbled. It was the sound he'd assigned to text messages.

Grissom contemplated ignoring the message for now. The two most likely communicants were Hodges and the Under Sheriff, both of whom could wait. But they wouldn't go away. He sighed. Might as well get it over with. He peered at the glowing display.

A smile brightened his face. He clambered out of the tub and sat on the edge.

xxxxxxx

As she came off the beach, Sara saw an N-line streetcar leaving the Judah Street terminus and readily diverted her steps over to the Java Beach Café. The Metro service was frequent; she could catch a later one.

Hunkered down at a small inside table, Sara cupped her hands around her jumbo-sized hot chocolate, wishing she could do the same with her feet. They still felt semi-frozen. And gritty. The whole sand-between-the-toes thing lost its appeal once you were off the beach. She had toyed with the idea of doing contortions over the restroom sink to rinse them off until she decided that paper towels wouldn't dry her skin properly and she didn't want to sacrifice her last clean(ish) handkerchief. So she'd wiped off as much of the sand as she could before putting her socks and sneakers back on, but that irritating grainy feeling would be with her until she got back to her temporary home.

Anyway, the hot chocolate was hitting the spot. Memories surged of Gil's strong warm hands massaging her feet. Floating away for a moment on remembered bliss she soon drifted back to thinking about life with Gil.

Their approaches, their habits, were so different. Where Sara would rummage feverishly through drawers searching for the only top she could consider wearing that day, Gil would calmly take dark shirt #3 off its hanger and slip it on.

He had remarked once how intriguing he found it that she could be so painstaking and attentive to detail professionally and so disorganized in private. He wasn't being judgmental; it was merely an interested observation. Ever the scientist, thought Sara.

"It's an illusion of chaos. Underneath I'm totally organized," she insisted.

He pursed his lips in a silent 'if you say so', humor sparkling in his eyes. He tilted his head, waiting for the segue.

Sure enough, Sara's eyes darted around once more and she grinned guiltily as she wondered out loud, "Now, where are my sunglasses?"

"Try the kitchen counter." He was shaking his head and smiling back at her.

"See, I don't need to be organized. I have you." A big smile accompanied that.

He thrust out an arm as Sara hurried by, capturing her, tugging her close and gathering her into his chest. "Yes, you do." After nuzzling her neck he whispered in her ear, "And I thank my lucky star every day, even as you run rampant searching, that I have you."

xxxxxxx

Sara smiled at that memory. She felt tears rising again, but they were happier tears now. Then she realized it was about that time of the month. Hormones sure had a lot to answer for. She retrieved her handkerchief and dried her eyes.

Gradually she felt the blood returning to her extremities, and some of her tiredness lifted as the sugar and chocolate worked their magic. She rose briefly to snag a copy of the Chronicle from the table next door. Flicking through the pages, she read a word here, a phrase there. The world was still out there, but she felt strangely detached from it. She was getting in touch with herself, feeling more at ease in her own skin, and that was what mattered. The world would still be there when she was ready for it.

But there was someone out there she needed to get in touch with, and soon. She had been procrastinating long enough.

Yes, it was time.

Tomorrow she would take the first step.

Anticipation battled with apprehension as she let her decision sink in. Then she let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding and looked back at the newspaper. Turning over the next page, she spotted the Sunday crossword. A previous reader had made a start on the puzzle, but not gotten very far. She scanned the clues, wondering if she could be bothered. After a moment she shrugged, and dug in her bag for a pen. It wasn't like she had any plans for tonight.

She made reasonable progress. It was a straightforward crossword, which she appreciated. Her brain wasn't up to the challenge of a cryptic puzzle right now.

59 across. Four letters. She paused. She should know that. Staring at the blank boxes inspired nothing. But she knew someone who could help. It was early evening, he would probably be awake. She fished out her cell.

Deftly she thumbed a message. "Sign of surrender. 4 letters. Insect wings."

As she set the phone on the table she glanced at the screen. 6:53 pm, Monday 31 March 2008. Monday, not Sunday. So the paper was a day old, and she was out of touch. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, but stored the question for another time and turned back to the black and white grid.

xxxxxxx

The reply came quickly. "Simple one, Sara. ALAE"

Grinning broadly, she sent back "scientific oracle speaks".

Grissom burst out laughing. It wasn't that funny, but he sorely needed some levity. He hadn't laughed in so long and the tension release was marvelous.

Greg, lugging his kit into the house, wondered if he were hearing things.

"Sara outshines stars". Grissom smiled as he pressed the "send" button. This was getting silly. It was way past silly, in fact. Downright absurd was more like it. But it was fun, and they both needed some fun in their lives.

She'd been thinking about him so much today, suddenly she knew she had to speak to him. Forget the SOS messages. Sara shot off, "Time to talk?"

"Gimme 5. Will call u."

Sara looked at that. Gil using abbreviations, almost text speak, meant his time was limited. She shrugged; she would take what she could get. She wrote in the answer to 59 across and started looking at the transecting down clues. Maybe the just added letters would help her get a few more answers.

Sara smirked at the puzzle as she read the clues. Gil's crossword discipline was very different from her own. Really, she had no discipline at all. She used a scattergun approach, skimming the clues and waiting for one to jump out at her. He methodically worked through all the across clues, crossing off the number when he got the answer, moving onto the next if not. After that it was every down clue in order. Only then would he allow himself to go back and cherry-pick clues for further contemplation, scanning for the places where a few letters had been inserted.

xxxxxxx

Grissom tidied the fingerprint equipment back into his kit, then left the bathroom to find Greg screwing up his nose at the unsavory dishes in the kitchen sink. Gesturing towards the front door with his cell phone in hand, he said, "I need a break—I'll be outside for a few minutes."

Greg sighed at the sight before him, tugged on a new pair of gloves, and distractedly tossed over his shoulder, "Sure thing, Grissom."

A few moments later Greg grunted in annoyance. How could he be out of evidence bindles? Grissom would have some, but he didn't want to rifle through that meticulously organized kit and risk messing it up. He knew there were plenty in the back of the truck. Plus he could do with some more gloves.

Greg muttered "supplies" as he passed the officer stationed at the door, then glanced over to his right. Grissom was leaning against the patchy stucco wall of the house which was their crime scene, left leg bent so his foot was flat against the wall. Head tilted into his right hand, he was talking on his cell phone. The low voice and relaxed shoulders told Greg that it wasn't a work-related call. That was unusual in itself, and the distinct giggle that floated Greg's way on the evening air was downright weird. Grissom giggles? Maybe it was a chuckle. Whatever, it was weird.

Greg raised his eyebrows and grinned privately. He hoped he was right. Question: was he brave (or stupid) enough to ask Grissom, try to find out for sure? He pondered that as he rummaged in the cargo area of the Denali. The box containing latex gloves, size M, was proving elusive.

xxxxxxx

"I've been walking on Ocean Bea—"

"And you have cold sandy feet," Grissom finished.

There was a pause as Sara took the phone away from her ear and stared at it. She looked around her suspiciously. Did he have her under surveillance? She pictured Grissom arranging webcams all over the Bay area to keep an eye on her. Okay, that was ridiculous, but how …?

"C'mon, you said you always walk barefoot on the wet sand, and the air temperature can't be more than the high 50s."

Oh. Yeah.

He was right on both counts. She shrugged away her slight paranoia and admitted, "I forgot that I told you about my beach walking."

"Mmmm." He pictured long-legged Sara striding on the sand then dragged his attention back to the phone call. "Any seagull attacks?" he asked, striving for a tone of innocent inquiry.

"There was a dog chasing some, if that's what you mean." Her confusion came through. "Bruno would've loved it."

"Ah, no. I was thinking about the Sausalito ferry." He chuckled, remembering. She had been so indignant, claiming that the gull had targeted her. "Did you get 'hit on' by any birds?"

"Why do you insist on finding that so amusing?" Sara was still annoyed at that seagull. The shoulder of her favorite jacket, her hair! She shuddered.

Grissom scratched his new beard and patiently explained, not for the first time, "I don't think it's funny you got guano'd. That you feel the bird made a beeline for you, and did it because he knew it would piss you off…that I find amusing. It's a BIRD, honey. The phrase 'bird brain' exists for a reason."

"Yeah, well," Sara grumbled. "You know logical answers aren't always satisfying."

Grissom smirked into the early evening air. Changing the subject seemed like a good idea. "So … need any more help with the crossword?"

"Eh …" Sara glanced over the remaining clues. "Nothing else buggy that I can see."

She heard Grissom coughing lightly, and rushed to add, "I know your general knowledge is vast, and not limited to small arthropods, but I'm doing okay with the rest. Thank you." Sara heard what sounded like a car door slamming and frowned. "Wait, where are you? I thought you'd be at home."

"Yeah," Grissom sighed and looked at his watch. "It's approaching my breakfast time, isn't it? Swing shift has 'the flu', and we got called in to cover. I'm at a scene, but … let's just say I needed some fresh air. Greg's--" His voice trailed off as he watched Greg go back into the house.

"Greg's what? Annoying you?"

"No, no. He's working the scene. Just got some supplies from the truck. He's—" Grissom wrinkled his brow as he wondered how to phrase it. "He's been very helpful recently. A bit quiet. I think … I know … he misses you."

Sara didn't know how to respond. She felt her lip quivering and clenched her fist. A hormonal outburst was the last thing she wanted.

Grissom hadn't meant to say that. It just slipped out. He had to say something else. Keep it light. "See, he thinks that if you were here I'd put you on trash trawling duty instead of him, to demonstrate that I'm not playing favorites."

"Yeah, you'd do that too." Sara's voice was warm with her unseen smile. She felt steadier now. "Look, I don't want to keep you from work, but I wanted to tell you something."

"I'm here."

"I've decided to give her a call. You know who. Tomorrow. To see … what happens."

Grissom squeezed his eyes tightly closed as he tried to contain his surprise. He'd been trying, very gently, to encourage this for … how long? A very long time. It was a big thing. Huge. Which meant that now was the time to downplay it. Sara's announcement was momentous. He knew that she would follow through. She didn't need to feel any added pressure from him. "That's good news, honey. I'm pleased."

"Yeah." She knew he was holding back, and appreciated it. She couldn't handle more emotion right now. "Hey, I'll call or text you after. To tell you how it went."

"Okay … Okay. That's good. Uh, I should probably—"

"Get back to work. Go. I'll call. Love you."

He was about to reply when he realized she had gone. He checked the screen and nodded—that was very Sara. He closed the phone, stuffing it into his pocket as he headed back into the crime scene.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** SOS  
**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** edging up to teen/T  
**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and its characters aren't mine; the story is.  
**Author's note:** Sorry it's been a while since the last chapter, but I have at last managed to produce another one. Big thanks to **smacky30** for her always helpful beta reading; credit to flesym for the further fiddling.

**Summary:** Sara left in tears; now Grissom arrives for New Year's. GSR

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Chapter 5

"How's Sara?"

One glove half on, Grissom froze. Then slowly, inch by inch, he turned and looked at Greg, tilting his head in a silent question.

"I guessed … I mean, it was a guess." Greg's tone moved from firm to faltering in a few words. "I didn't hear anything." Except for that weirdo chuckle.

Grissom nodded vaguely, tugging ineffectually at the uncooperative latex.

Greg shrugged. "You seem better after your break." He was unnerved by Grissom's silence, though that was nothing new. He did have the older man's attention; he was sure of that. He wasn't worried about upsetting him either. He could take whatever Grissom chucked back at him, but he wanted to know. He cared for Sara. And for Grissom too, although he wasn't about to say that. So instead of blabbering, he stared at Grissom, tried to exude confidence he didn't feel, and began to wait him out. He could do the silent treatment as well as the next guy; after all, he'd learned from a master.

After what seemed like an eternity to Greg—real time about 30 seconds—Grissom shifted his feet and spoke. "She … she's good." He smiled faintly and added, "Doing a lot better."

He was probably pushing his luck, but Greg couldn't resist a follow-up. "Where is she?"

"Uh … San Francisco mostly." That was more than enough sharing for one night, thought Grissom. He waved his hand around the open-plan kitchen and living room area. "Run through for me what you've done in here."

Back to work. Greg risked a quiet smile as he started his recap, "Nothing of int—"

"Greg … thanks … uh, just thanks."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sara had arrived early, so of course Grissom's plane was late—an hour and a half's delay according to the arrivals board. Morning fog had lingered, backing up flight operations. Leaning against a free patch of wall in sight of the bank of TV screens so she could keep an eye on any updates, Sara sipped at chamomile tea and noticed no calming effects from it whatsoever.

Grissom had been texting her while his plane was waiting to taxi out to the runway, until he stopped abruptly. Sara hoped that meant they had been about to take off. For something to do, she scrolled through the messages. She'd sent the first one when she arrived at the airport.

SS: Sara on site

GG: still on soil

SS: sending out sympathy

GG: sun over SF?

SS: smidges of sky

GG: sipping on something?

SS: wow! spycam operating smoothly

GG: such obsessive suspicion

SS: savoring ostensible sedative

GG: smile o—

And that was it.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It was late in the morning of December 31st and SFO was bustling with travelers all trying to make their New Year's Eve plans come to pass. Fond farewells, rapturous returns and complaints about lost luggage mingled and swirled around Sara, punctuated by barely decipherable PA announcements and cell phones ringing as their distracted owners tried to keep track of children, elderly parents or baggage.

It hardly seemed real. Six weeks ago she'd left Las Vegas, desperate and distraught, knowing only that she felt compelled to leave behind life as she knew it and her one and only love. She had never dreamt of this scenario; it was so much better than she could ever have hoped. Gil hadn't given up on her, he was coming to visit and, and—

Sara shook herself. It was real. Weather and air traffic control permitting, he would be here soon.

Her stomach was churning.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

That incredible first phone call from Grissom, five days before Christmas, had gone on a long time.

After a while, their conversation had moved on to the holidays ahead. They were both treading carefully, each not wanting to upset the other, wary of asking for more than the other felt able to give.

"Gil … um … Christmas. I've been invited to my friend Julie's place. D'you remember Julie?"

"Julie, as in Julie from Harvard Julie? I remember meeting her. But isn't she in Massachusetts?"

"She was. She's … they're living in Strawberry now—"

"Is it my hearing, or are you going to visit a fruit?"

Despite her tension, Sara smiled at that. "It's a place, near Sausalito."

"I think maybe I knew that," Grissom admitted. "I'm working the 24th and 25th." He wanted to make that clear, so she wouldn't feel he was angling to visit so soon.

"But—"

"But I'm having Christmas dinner with Catherine, Lindsay and Cath's mom before work on the 25th. And I've got a few days off over New Year. I've got plans to go to Bull Run, up near Elko, to check out the insect fossils there." Unless … the fossils could wait, they'd been there millions of years already. He wouldn't say it, didn't dare.

"I'm going to Tomales for New Year's. That is, I was planning to." Sara had another idea, but she didn't want to push him.

That was … amazing. She was going back there. "That's great, honey. D'you know, I mean, do you have a place to stay?"

"Yeah …" When Sara thought about it, it still seemed a strange thing for her to be doing. "Um, it's the new incarnation of my folks' B&B. The couple who run it now, they're … they've been very sweet to me."

Grissom was dumbstruck. She had already been there, and clearly the experience was nothing like she had imagined—dreaded—for so long. And she was willingly going back for another visit.

"Griss?" The old nickname leapt out without any conscious thought.

"Uh … that's wonderful, Sara. I--It's good." He had no idea what to say; it was amazing to be talking to her at all, and this news of hers … he could still barely speak.

"Gil … can you … would you like to come see me over the New Year? Tom and Dale have invited me, but they'll understand—"

"We can sort out the details. I'll phone you with my flight number." He had found his voice, and with it his determination.

Sara started to believe that maybe all was not lost.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sara picked at the seam of her cup before realizing how unwise that was. She glanced up at the arrivals board.

Finally.

Grissom's flight had landed.

Her innards quivered again. Time for yet another visit to the restroom. She tossed the cup toward a nearby trash can and strode swiftly towards the facilities, not noticing the drink container teeter on the brink and just barely topple in.

Soon back at her vantage point, Sara focused intently on the automatic doors through which the arriving passengers from Las Vegas—Gil!—would emerge.

Suddenly, there he was.

Around her the individual sounds merged into a swirling tornado of noise, the many people going about their business fractured into a kaleidoscope of color.

Grissom stopped just inside the arrivals area, calm in the eye of the storm, scanning the crowd. He spotted her, smiled and then moved, taking brisk paces towards her.

Sara watched his distinctive rolling gait, almost mesmerized.

Grissom was worried about why she wasn't moving. Had she changed her mind about him visiting?

Seeing the doubt flicker across his face, Sara shook herself, pushed off the wall and began running towards him.

They met in a tight hug and the world went away as they clutched together, swaying slowly. Grissom whispered 'Sara' into her hair and she breathed in his familiar aroma and sighed with relief.

After a time, Grissom loosened his arms enough to run his hands up her back, gently brushing Sara's shoulders then moving his palms to frame her face. He studied her for a moment, his eyes shining, and then leaned in for a soft kiss.

Sara, her head swirling with joy, made more of it, cupping the back of his head to keep him close. Gentleness warmed into heat as they each rediscovered the other's feel, breath, flavor. They floated happily in their private universe until a brusque, "Hey, fella, move your bag would ya?" brought them back to reality with a jolt.

Although their lips parted, Grissom sought and held Sara's hand as he turned to the speaker. A large ruddy-faced man with a bright red cap and an over-loaded baggage cart was pointing at Grissom's duffle.

"Ah, sorry, I'll get that out of your way." Word mirrored deed as he hefted the bag, slinging the long strap over his shoulder.

Sara tugged Grissom closer to the wall and they stood for a moment staring at each other. She took in the shadows under his eyes, the deeper lines accenting them, the rosy flush on his cheeks. How had she forgotten how handsome he was?

He noted that her hair was shorter, shining, her eyes dancing and her hand was cold. Her hands were always cold. She looked marvelous.

"I guess we got a bit carried away there," said Sara in that husky voice he loved so well.

Grissom flushed darker; it was so unlike him to make such a public and involved display of affection. And then some. He shoved his hands in his pockets, to avoid the temptation to touch her again. He shrugged a shoulder as he murmured, "I've missed you, honey."

He saw a cloud pass over Sara's eyes and quickly moved on, pointing to his bag. "I only brought this, so we're good to go. Which way …?" He looked uncertainly at the many directional signs, then at Sara.

He held out his large warm hand, and Sara pushed away her momentary pang of guilt. "BART into the city, then we pick up the rental car in town to drive to Tomales Bay." She pointed to the train sign and they started walking toward it. Suddenly she stopped, frowning. "Is that OK? I mean, the freeway from here gets jammed and—"

"Sara, it's fine. You know this place better than I do." He pulled her to him and dropped a soft kiss on her lips, then they continued on to the station.

Grissom murmured something about how good it was to be in a city with a mass transit system and tried to recall the last time he had been on a train. Their timing was good and they were soon on their way. Sara was relieved to see the sluggish lines of cars on the 101, and relaxed into the curve of Grissom's arm.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The early fog was now descending in liquid form, a fitful drizzle dripping from a gray sky. Wispy clouds obscured the higher reaches of the enormous uprights, but Grissom's eyes were bright with child-like enthusiasm as he fastened his seat belt. He reached across to squeeze Sara's hand, saying, "It's been years since I went over the Golden Gate Bridge."

Grissom kept up a light chatter as they left San Francisco and headed north. Sara, concentrating in the holiday traffic, realized that his behavior was unusual. Their whole situation was uncharted territory for them both.

Later, as they wended their way along the coast on Highway 1, Grissom fell silent. Sara glanced across and saw his eyelids drooping. He shifted in his seat as he rubbed his eyes.

Grissom suddenly felt exhausted. The adrenaline rush from seeing Sara again had sustained him through the flight, the BART ride and picking up the rental car. But weeks of long hours at work and poor sleep were now catching up with him. Not to mention that this was his usual sleeping time.

Keeping one eye on the road, Sara raised a hand to clasp his shoulder. Grissom's eyes startled open once more and he blinked them wide in a futile attempt to wake up.

"Hey." Her voice was low. "Why don't you take a nap?"

He looked across at her and protested feebly, "I came to see you."

She shrugged, not wanting to push him. Grissom didn't like admitting to human frailties, even to her. She said only, "I'll be right here beside you. Please?"

His heavy eyelids and the gathering fog of sleep were winning. "All right. Okay. But you've got to wake me up before we get to Tomales." His sweet smile gentled his stern words. "I want to see it with you."

"Sure, I'd like that too." Sara reached across to rest her right hand on his thigh. She needed to touch him.

Grissom covered her hand with his own, tucking his thumb beneath her palm. Reclining the seat slightly for comfort, he closed his eyes and settled back with a grateful sigh.

For her part, Sara was thankful that she hadn't given into the rental agent's spiel and taken the 'great deal' on a European stick shift car. She knew how to drive one; that wasn't the issue.

Her hand wanted to stay right where it was.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Grissom was exhausted and Sara was determined for him to get some proper rest before they did anything else. She was more than pleased to see him sink without protest onto the king size bed. With a soft smile she covered him with a light blanket and lowered the blinds to shut out the setting sun.

Once she was sure he was asleep, Sara lay down beside Grissom with her book. Despite his enthusiasm at seeing her, he'd obviously been dog tired. The brief nap he'd had in the car on the drive north hadn't really made a dent in his fatigue, although he had revived sufficiently to look interested as they drove through the little town of Tomales, where Sara pointed out Aroha, as the B&B was now called. They didn't stop there; they would meet up with Tom and Dale later today or tomorrow. The guys had understood when she refused the offer of their best room, understanding her desire for privacy.

Their accommodation for the next few days was an idyllic waterfront cottage with the evocative name Bandits' Bungalow. It was part of Nick's Cove—a pricey coastal retreat on Tomales Bay, about five miles from the town. Dale had even wangled her a great deal with his friend, who was the manager. She was very grateful—re-connecting with Gil was the important thing, even so she didn't want to deplete her savings too much. Though she had lined up a part-time tutoring job at Berkeley for the spring semester, that didn't pay well and living in the Bay Area was expensive.

With a sigh, she snuggled under the blanket and opened her book.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

First there was a big blue bear leaning against a large USPS mailbox licking a chocolate ice cream. Then a tall, slender, dark-haired woman appeared, accompanied by a beady-eyed man who was holding a black oxford shoe to his ear and talking in an annoyingly nasal voice. "Sorry about that, Chief. It's been chaos here."

Grissom knew he was dreaming. It was vividly clear, definitely fantastic and oddly familiar. However no darkness or fear lurked in this dream world, so he was in no hurry to wake up.

The bear's ice cream turned orange as the man continued speaking to his shoe. "Yes, of course we have the bear under observation … what's he doing?"

He set the shoe down on top of the mailbox and asked, "Excuse me Mr. Bear, what are you doing?"

"Slurping orange sorbet," was the succinct response.

A disembodied voice was heard saying "Such obvious spyware," then a hand came out of the mail slot, grabbed the shoe phone and somehow pulled it into the mailbox.

The man with the beady eyes yelled, "Hey!"

The mystery voice was now heard again—though muffled it was clearly coming from inside the mailbox. "I've told you 86, use your cell phone like everyone else."

The woman tried to pull her companion away. "Come on, Max, I've got my Blackberry."

He, however, stood firm, pointing at his sock-clad right foot. "I. Need. My. Shoe."

She huffed lightly and knocked on the navy blue metal.

"Yeeeeesss?" The word was long and drawn out, the tone distinctly discouraging.

The dark-haired beauty bent down so her mouth was close to the aperture, and wheedled in a breathy voice, "Thirteen, would you be an absolute dah-ling and give me Max's shoe? I promise I'll deactivate the phone."

Straightening up, she looked quizzically at the mail box as she waited. After a few moments, they heard a throat clearing and a grudging response, "Well … since it's you, 99." The shoe reappeared, with wires sticking out of the heel. The voice muttered, "I deactivated it already."

The woman grinned, revealing a gap between her front teeth.

"What a gorgeous diastema," commented the bear, who until now seemed to have been engrossed in consuming his cone.

Ms. Gorgeous Diastema handed the shoe over to its owner, winking at the bear.

Suddenly dreaming Grissom had a revelation: the bear was him.

Bizarre.

So why was he blue? Or a bear, for that matter?

Unable to fathom it, he shook his head and turned over from his back to his side, leaving the puzzling dream behind and rolling up against a warm body. Still two-thirds asleep, he nudged it, muttering, "C'mon Bruno, told you. Off the bed."

Sara stifled a giggle. Gil sounded more tolerant than ticked off. He made another vague prod.

This time Sara grinned, glad that Gil hadn't used his elbow. He pummeled his pillow, then harrumphed and draped his arm around her waist. "S'okay. You c'n stay for a while."

Gil seemed to be having a very entertaining dream; he had been muttering about shoes and phones a while back, now Sara had the clear impression that he thought she was Bruno. Ah well, he was a great dog. If Bruno had been keeping Gil company in her absence, good for him. She had so missed having the pure, basic comfort of Gil's solid warm body to snuggle up to.

That wasn't all she'd been missing.

It seemed that Grissom's subconscious was traveling down the same track; the arm that had been lying heavily over her waist lifted and his hand slipped under the bottom edge of her turtleneck, edging up slowly to cup her breast. Sara shivered pleasurably at his touch.

"Hey, you," came the sleepy mumble.

"Pleasant dreams?" she smirked privately. She speculated on whether he would remember enough to recount the story. It had something to do with spies, from what she'd heard, but that wasn't enough to go on.

When Grissom began nuzzling her neck, Sara marked her place in To Kill a Mockingbird and set it on the nightstand. She knew what she wanted, but she was determined that it be his choice. In spite of all the evidence before her, an internal quiver of insecurity desperately craved confirmation that, after everything, he still desired her. As he curled in closer, spooning, Sara discovered that some parts of him were more awake than others. She smirked, her anxiety waning. Hee—there was evidence behind her too.

"Mmmm," he murmured. "You taste good."

Sara checked the time on her phone. "We've got a few hours before the fireworks display, assuming you still want to go. D'you want to eat … or something?"

Grissom surprised Sara by whirling her over onto her back and pinning her there, his knees and hands either side of her body. He leant in for a hungry kiss, which she returned without hesitation.

He pulled back a few inches to smile at her, arousal darkening his eyes and flushing his cheeks. "I'm going with the 'or something'." He tilted his head, questioning. "That okay with you?"

Sara's last tiny doubt had vanished and she pulled him back to her lips. "Let's make our own fireworks."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** SOS  
**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** rating change! Now M/adult  
**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and its characters aren't mine; the story is.  
**Author's note:** Apologies for the wait. I decided that I would aim to get this fic finished before season 9 started, then when I discovered that wasn't until October I figured I had acres of time—and completely lost the will to write. Big thanks to **smacky30** for her very speedy and helpful beta reading - and the rest!

**Summary:** Sara left in tears; now Grissom's visiting for New Year's. GSR

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Chapter 6

"Hey," Sara murmured into Grissom's neck, "how's the boy?" She was slowly coming back to the world, thinking about a shower but was unwilling to leave the absolute comfort of Gil's slightly sweaty embrace just yet. She _had_ finally remembered to ask about Bruno. Somehow in all the nervy excitement of seeing Gil again, and traveling to Tomales Bay, she hadn't thought of the dog. At least he would never know of her forgetfulness. Dogs were good like that.

"Mmmm?" Grissom was still floating after their passionate reunion and his thought processes were not really back on line.

"How's your recent bed mate?"

"She's right here." Grissom turned to kiss her forehead, brushing back some hair first. Then he belatedly realized how odd her question sounded. "Uh, what?"

Sara snickered at his confusion. "Bruno, how's he doing?"

"Oh, ah, good. Nick's looking after him while I'm here."

"He's a good guy."

"Mmm … he keeps inviting me to breakfast. But says that we don't have to talk about anything in particular."

They both knew what Nick was trying to do. He _was_ a good guy.

Rolling onto his back, Grissom lifted his arm to stretch it, and noticed the time on his wristwatch. "It's 11:30. What about the fireworks display? If we're going we need to get organized."

Sara stretched her arms and legs lazily, enjoying the feeling of utter contentment that cocooned her.

"I dunno … I saw some amazing sky rockets just now."

"You too?" A few moments ago Grissom had seen some stunning flares himself, and he could have sworn that his eyes had been closed at the time. "What were yours like?"

"The colors of the rainbow, sparkling, shimmering waaayyy up high." Sara's voice, low and languorous, wafted like a warm breeze fanning Grissom's eager spirit.

"Yeah? How high?" he mumbled lazily.

Sara rolled back to Grissom, who raised his arm to gather her close as she tucked her head into the soft curve of his neck. "So," she paused for Grissom's enormous yawn, "so high, they climbed halfway to the stars."

"Mmm … Sara outshines stars."

She giggled. "Still overachieving, sweetie." He probably wasn't even aware that he was doing it. Sara could hear his words dragging; he was growing sleepy again. He would go out to watch the fireworks with her if she wanted to, she knew that, but she didn't want to drag him out of bed. "Let's skip the fireworks tonight, okay? We're perfect here."

"Mmm, you're right." Grissom rolled onto his side, gently nudging Sara to do the same so he could cuddle against her back. As he moved in, draping his arm over her waist, suddenly she felt him stiffen—not in a good way.

Sara was instantly concerned. "Gil, what's wrong?" Her anxious guilt was never far from the surface, despite his best efforts to talk her out of it, and now Grissom seemed to be frozen in the grip of some deep emotion.

Grissom had been relaxing toward sleep when a fuzzy half-memory came back to him, one that hadn't made sense to him at the time, of lying in a similar position with Sara saying something odd about a recent bed mate. _Maybe it was one of those déjà vu scenarios?_

Suddenly the pieces had fallen into place and he froze, feeling a bright blush of embarrassment spreading across his face.

And now he was perturbing Sara. Feeling sheepish he muttered, "I thought you were Bruno earlier, didn't I?"

xxxxxxx

Grissom put the newspaper down on the wooden side table. Sara had bought it at the airport three days earlier while waiting for him to arrive, and he had retrieved it from the floorboard behind the driver's seat of the car when they came back from a visit to the Hog Island Oyster Farm. His stash of a dozen oysters was now waiting in the fridge. He would shuck them while Sara finished up in the bathroom. She had wanted to try out the deep soaking bathtub, saying something about the allure of a claw foot tub. He really didn't see the point of baths, but he knew Sara like to lounge in one every so often, reading. A few of her (and his) books bore signs of water damage after … mishaps.

He'd been happy to settle down with the crossword. But somehow the black and white grid wasn't holding his attention. The distressed leather of the capacious armchair creaked as he pushed to his feet and walked to the windows overlooking the water. The pinky orange glow of the setting sun streaked out from behind the storm gray clouds which scudded across the bay, driven by the wind which had been gusting all day.

He rubbed his neck as he watched gulls wheeling on the wind beyond the end of the wooden pier which stretched out from the shore. He was unsettled—not edgy precisely, but not at peace. And he knew why. He was going back to Las Vegas tomorrow, and he was already missing Sara. _This was silly. She was in the next room_.

"May I join you?" Grissom's head peeking around the door and his soft enquiry drew Sara's attention away from her book. He cocked his head, looking hopeful.

"Uh … sure. But … I thought you didn't like baths."

"Ah, but this one has you in it." He smiled sweetly. "That fact is key. And I'm only joining you in the room, not in the tub."

Sara had been thinking about cutting the reading session short anyway. Hardback books were never a great idea for bath reading, and the extra weight had been tensing her upper arms and shoulders. Plus she really didn't want to leave a book with wrinkly pages on the shelf when she left Bandit's Bungalow. She looked curiously at Grissom, his appearance welcome although unexpected.

He shrugged. "I realized that I can do crosswords any old time."

Sara's throaty laugh resonated. "What, you thought you'd do me instead?

"Not at all." The response was immediate and truthful; the idea hadn't crossed his mind—until now. _Something to consider, though._ The thought raised his brow as he slipped into the bathroom.

Picking a pile of fluffy white towels off a low stool, Grissom set them beneath the double sink then pulled the stool over beside the bath and sat down. "I have to go back tomorrow, and …" he paused, glancing down at his feet, "I'd like to spend as much time as I can with you." His voice was matter of fact, but Sara could see a hint of vulnerability in his eyes when he glanced up to see her reaction. He didn't want to leave her, but feared being too pushy. He wasn't pushing, he was being very careful not to push, yet he was gently, insistently, edging himself back into her orbit.

Sara stared at him, as so often in the last few days, amazed at his openness. She was learning to simply take him at his word, however, instead of immediately launching into self-flagellating feelings of guilt and remorse stemming from her abrupt, unannounced departure from Las Vegas. She reached up her had to rub his thigh, trying with her gentle caress to show that she wanted him there too. He immediately covered her hand with his own larger one, clasping it softly.

She titled her head, considering him. "Would you be up to doing one of your wonderful head and shoulders massages?"

"It would be my pleasure," he murmured, voice gravelly. He squeezed her hand as if in confirmation. Sara closed her book and held it up to Grissom's reaching hand. Pausing for a moment, he rubbed the leather spine absently, regarding her with tenderness, then rose, stretching across to stow the volume safely on the counter between the double sinks. Before sitting down again he shifted the stool around to the head of the bath.

Sara lay back on the smooth slope of the tub, eager for the touch of Gil's soft, strong hands. He leaned in and started to work, first lightly rubbing the top of her shoulders, sliding up her neck in long strokes then fingering carefully through Sara's hair. He undid the tortoiseshell claw she wore, letting her chestnut tresses tumble down, giving him easier access to her scalp. Pressing in firm ever-shifting circles he relaxed the tensions encircling her head. At length, he reached her temples. There he softened the pressure but lingered longer as Sara sighed ecstatically at his ministrations.

She let out a pleasure-filled breath. He was so good at this; firm yet gentle, delicate but probing, unerringly finding the tightest knots and working his magic on them. As he moved down from her neck to her shoulders, a shudder of bliss ran through her. _Nothing could be more perfect than this, right here, right now._

It was great for Sara, but Grissom's own back was starting to protest at both the angle and the stretching. As he moved his hands down to her shoulders for some concentrated kneading, he contemplated kneeling on the floor. It was carpeted, but his knees still wouldn't like it. He considered, and rejected, using towels for padding. And he did enough crouching in his job. He chuckled as he realized that he was thinking himself into the tub.

"Mmmm?" Sara heard the chuckle and wondered vaguely what it meant.

Grissom made the decision and stood up.

"Hey, wassup?" Sara's quiet query wasn't a protest exactly, but she was used to these sessions lasting a lot longer. Gil's meticulous nature was a marvelous thing when it came to massages.

He kicked off his shoes and undid his belt. "Scoot forward, I'm getting in." His pants were dropped and off in a flash, clingy socks got tugged until they ceded, shirt was unbuttoned and flung untidily on the stool. He moved quickly for fear his bath aversion would dissuade him now that he'd decided to take the plunge, as it were.

Sara sneaked a glance over her shoulder at Gil's rapid stripping and duly scooted. Bending her long legs to give him plenty of room, she hid her amazement. Besides, determined Grissom was always a sight to behold — but nearly naked, with the fire of his mission lighting his eyes, he was compelling.

Last off were his boxers, then he grasped the edge of the tub as he carefully climbed in. The bath wasn't as big as it had seemed with just Sara in it, but at least the water was a reasonable temperature. Stretching his legs out on either side of Sara, he grasped her waist and made to gently tug her closer. "Move back now, honey," he murmured. "Yeah, that's right. Lean into my hands … I'll support you."

He thumb-climbed up her spine, pressing softly; he knew she found too much pressure directly on the bone uncomfortable. Then, moving his strong fingers spider-like over the broad muscles of her back, he rubbed methodically, pinpointing some areas for specific attention.

Sara groaned softly as he worked on that knot in her right trapezius muscle, a classic trouble spot. By now Gil had rendered the rest of her loose and languid, but that tangle of tension was always the last holdout. She was leaning forward now, head on her folded arms which were in turn propped on her bent knees.

Grissom meanwhile was trying unsuccessfully to keep his mind on the task at hand. Sara's quiet happy grunts, the occasional pleasure-filled murmur of "Yeessss," and the sight of her long lean alabaster body writhing gently under his hands were hugely distracting. The unusual sensation of water lapping around his lower body only added to the effect, sending tingles of heat shooting through his groin. Trying to divert his eyes from the smooth delight of Sara's back Grissom looked down. The sinuous curve of her spine drew his eyes down to the delicious cleft of Sara's rear and his growing erection. He closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head as he smiled wryly. How did the periodic table go again?

"Ooooh," Sara stretched her arms up, luxuriating in the loose relaxation Grissom had wrought. He throbbed at sight of her graceful limbs flexing and the glimpses afforded of her breasts. "You are sooooo good at that. How can I ever thank you? I'm as limp as a noodle." She shifted closer to him, leaning back against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her mid section. "Your noodle, on the other hand, is showing distinct signs of tension." Her breathy giggle and the subtle shimmy of her hips added to the building pressure.

"Mmmm …" Grissom mumbled, gasping slightly. "I don't think I've quite finished your massage."

"No?" Sara would never refuse more massaging, but the feel of his arousal had sent throbs of anticipation swirling through her.

"No," he replied firmly. He leaned forward, brushing a tendril of hair away with his nose, and kissed the curve of her neck. She twisted around to meet his lips, inciting an "Oooof" from Grissom as she squirmed between his legs.

Sara was supple, but even so Grissom wondered at her contortions. He drew away from their hungry kiss, a little concerned. "You trying to undo all my good work?" he asked, only partly teasing. Hands on her shoulders, he gently encouraged her to turn back, and to lean against him once more. "Relax, stay still, let me continue your treatment." He tried to sound stern, but the huskiness in his voice gave him away.

Sara surrendered all thought of protest and relaxed back onto Grissom's broad chest. Bending his knees, he cradled her with his body as she draped one leg along the edge of the tub..

"I think you need some further attention, here," he raised a hand and stroked circles around one bare breast, softly kneading it, "and here." He rolled the nipple between his fingertips as his free hand rose to her other breast.

Waves of longing swept through her; she wanted nothing more than to drag him out of the bath onto the big bed and have her way with him—but he was so into this massage session that she didn't want to break the spell. He was really into it, if the insistent ridge beneath her was anything to go by. Wow—he was in a bath with her, for the first time in her memory, doing wonderful things with his hands. Why on earth was she thinking of getting out?

Grissom grumbled when she tried to touch him, capturing them firmly and kissing her palms before making her clasp them together on her belly. "Relax!"

Satisfied that she was going to behave, Grissom began to run his hands in long, adoring strokes over her body. He tickled around her belly button. He slid his palms over the curves of her hips. He moved around behind her, trying to relieve the pressure her nearness was causing, only to immediately miss the feel of her against him. She was irresistible.

He nibbled her earlobe as she shifted slightly, grinding her hips back against his erection. and chided in a singsong voice, "You're mooooving again."

"Gil …" Sara was trying very hard to be patient but as Grissom's hands flirted with the top of her thighs, never quite going where her tension was greatest, she squirmed and panted, "You're slacking as a masseur. You know where I need it."

Grissom was trying to be patient too, but it was clear to him that time was running out. He swallowed, and managed to say in a voice that was only slightly hoarse, "The final phase of your therapy involves … very invasive massage." Sara's lusty chuckle and strategic wiggling very nearly de-railed him, but he took a deep breath and continued, "And if you keep that up you'll miss out."

Sara tolerance for his teasing had reached her limit. She lifted her hips, wriggled backward and slipped him in. Grissom groaned at the exquisite heat of her body and she gulped air into her suddenly empty lungs.

They began a gentle rocking. It was cramped, the tub was both hard and slippery, the water sloshed with each movement but Grissom could think of nowhere he'd rather be. Then the time for thought was past. Feeling was all that mattered. Distantly he could hear labored breaths, someone grunting in time with their rhythm as they moved together in their mutual quest.

Sara was close. She grabbed his hand and placed it where she so desperately wanted it. "Here," gasps punctuated her words, "external … massage … too."

Suddenly her world exploded. Arching her back Sara rode the throbbing spasms as hot and cold ripples of pleasure rolled up her spine, over and over again.

Grissom thrust harder, jerky now as he went over the edge; falling, falling, falling into an abyss.

Sara's heart seemed to be trying to pound out of her chest as she flopped back against a panting Grissom. His eyes were closed and his head lolling from side to side.

After a while, reality started to creep back in. Sara shifted to sit between Grissom's splayed legs. As she lifted a jelly-like arm to brush some wayward hair out of her eyes she caught sight of her hand. "Huh. My fingers are all pruny."

Grissom's eyes started open and he stared at her with a dazed expression.

"You okay?"

"Huh?" He had a goofy grin on his face and was shaking his head.

"You okay?" she repeated, starting to laugh. She tapped his nose very lightly and somehow brought him out of his haze.

He cleared his throat and blinked a couple of times, wide-eyed. "I … forgot."

She raised her eyebrows to encourage him to continue.

"I forgot. We're … _I_ am in a bath." He shook his head, scarcely believing his own words. "And I loved it."

"The water's getting cold and I'm starting to look like old dried fruit. I'm getting out." Sara was secretly thrilled at his comments, but knew not to make too much of them. Yet. She maneuvered her feet beneath her and rose easily out of the tub, extending her hand to Grissom to help him up.

"Hey … you really are pruny." He squinted far-sightedly at her fingers, rubbing his less wrinkly digits over hers.

"That happens. Live with it." Smiling to soften her words, Sara tugged on his hand and he clambered out onto the bath mat, still looking spaced out. She tossed him a towel.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** SOS  
**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** M/adult  
**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and its characters aren't mine; the story is.  
**Author's note:** Heartfelt thanks to **smacky30** who not only beta'd this into shape but wrote a lovely passage where I was at a loss for words. Thank you again **smacky**!

**Summary:** Sara left in tears; now Grissom's visiting for New Year's. GSR

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**

Chapter 7

It wasn't a good day for the beach, but they headed out for one last walk anyway. Grissom had an afternoon flight back to Las Vegas to work the evening shift. Their time together had passed all too quickly, and Grissom hadn't even met Tom and Dale yet—although that was soon to change.

The view from the top of the dunes was dreary, in keeping with their moods. Sporadic drizzle seeped from a cloud-crowded sky and a half-hearted breeze toyed with the rigging of the sailboats hauled up for the winter—the hollow metallic clanging seemed to be tolling that the hour of departure was near. Gray, sluggish waves wrinkled their way into the shore.

Grissom put his arm around Sara, taking her hand into his and dipping their clasped hands into Sara's jacket pocket. Together they negotiated the slope and started plodding along the beach. Sara reached her free hand around Grissom's back and tucked it into his hip pocket.

Thus linked, they meandered along the sloping sand, rarely speaking. Grissom pointed to a pair of black oystercatchers foraging near the water line; Sara stooped briefly to inspect a few shells—with a sigh, she left them where they lay.

Once they reached the sandy headland which jutted out into the bay, by silent agreement they turned back, reluctantly retracing their steps. Standing beside the car, Sara breathed in deeply, the moist salty air catching in her throat. "They're expecting us," lifting Grissom's wrist to check the time, "now."

"Yeah, we should go." Grissom opened the driver's door and handed her in behind the wheel.

Trying to dispel the pervading melancholy, Grissom said, "So, have I got this right? Dale is from Ohio, he's tall and lean, the quiet one; while Tom is short, solid with a crew cut. He's from New Zealand, and he's loud."

"Yeah, I think you'll be able to figure out who's who." Sara smiled faintly. "They usually cheer me up—hope their magic works today."

xxxxxxx

They walked up the bricked path to the bright blue front door, Grissom clutching the bottle of Champagne he'd insisted on buying. Sara raised the handle of the brass knocker and paused, looking at him. "You sure you're ready for this? They'll understand if you want to pass."

Grissom raised an eyebrow and said firmly, "Absolutely. You tell me they've been good to you and I'd like to meet them. Besides, we already rain-checked on New Year's Day."

January first had dawned wet and windy, and they had deferred their tentative plans to get together with Tom and Dale for lunch, instead staying in their cozy cabin by the water. Truth be told, neither Grissom nor Sara had been ready to share the other with anyone else, so they kept away from the world and got reacquainted. After two days of room service, gradually they ventured out, going to the Nick's Cove restaurant for a meal and for walks on the beach. Yesterday they'd made it as far as the Hog Island Oyster Farm, all of three miles away.

Sara smiled wanly at him and let the knocker fall, then rapped a few more times for good measure. They heard brisk footsteps approaching, and the door was flung open.

A compact man with a blonde buzz cut and piercing blue eyes bounced into view. No question, this was Tom.

"Oh my lord!" Tom's tenor voice stretched into falsetto as he beckoned them to come in. He frowned at Sara and wagged his finger admonishingly; Grissom caught the glint of levity in the younger man's eye. "You didn't tell me your man was gaaaw-jus!"

Grissom pinkened but held his hand out politely. _Tom's really lively today_, thought Sara. "Uh, Gil, this is Tom. Tom, Gil."

"No, no, no! A handshake just won't do!"

Sara rolled her eyes; she hadn't known Tom for long, but she was already well acquainted with his over-the-top style. It was strange; usually noisy, over-enthusiastic people annoyed her, but Tom was so warm and well-intentioned that she found herself going with the flow.

Tom continued in a conversational tone, seemingly oblivious to any diffidence on the part of the visitors.

"Normally I would bow to conservative convention and shake hands, but to mark the arrival of Sara's beloved—an unexpected hottie," he added in a breathy aside, "kissing à la Française is called for."

Grissom quailed internally—the recent airport scene excepted, he was very rarely demonstrative in public even with Sara—but resisting the younger man's cheeky enthusiasm would make him look awkward, self-conscious and … in other words, exactly how he felt. Meanwhile Sara was smiling, looking at Tom with tolerant eyes and Grissom didn't want to break the moment. _He could do this._

Stepping forward, he lightly clasped Tom's shoulders. "Sara told me you've spent some time living in France," Grissom said smoothly, as he leaned in and quickly executed three light kisses—left cheek, then right, then left again.

Initially startled that his bluff had been called, Tom responded in kind, laughing delightedly as he did so.

Sara's was staring, stunned, as Grissom stepped back and turned to her, planting a warm, definitely invasive kiss on her mouth. Pulling back, he winked at her as she dissolved into a fit of giggles.

She shook her head, laughing. "Right, two variations on French kissing."

"Why are you all standing around on the doorstep?" Unheard by the others, a lanky dark-haired man had appeared behind them. Several inches taller than Grissom and Sara, Dale towered over his partner. "Sorry, I was busy in the kitchen. I'm Dale. Welcome to _Aroha_, Gil, it's a pleasure to meet you." He offered his hand to Grissom, who gratefully shook it, and then Dale gave Sara a solid hug.

"C'mon inside, get out of the drizzle. Brunch awaits!"

xxxxxxx

Brunch turned out to be a substantial meal, more like a full-blown feast. There was prime rib for Grissom and Dale, who was thrilled to have "another carnivore", as he put it, to cook for. They all shared the staggering variety of vegetarian dishes, from hot artichoke dip to zucchini fritters. Dale claimed he was reliving his European travels and his guests reveled in the journey.

Over mimosas made with Grissom's gift Champagne, which Tom described as the perfect aperitif, Grissom remembered something he'd been curious about. "I never actually heard how you three met." Pointing at Dale, he continued, "I heard about your muffins though. Sara raved!" Dale grinned modestly in response.

Sara explained that on her first visit back to Tomales, she had parked the car near Diekmann's General Store and wandered around on foot. She had been inexorably drawn to Dillon Beach Road, especially number forty-four where her life had changed so many years ago. "And I was standing along the street—"

"Lurking, you were, veritably lurking by the toyon hedge out front," interjected Tom. "I was weeding, I remember!"

"I was standing by the hedge, looking at the shiny new paint job and," she turned to Tom and said pointedly, "admiring what you'd done with the garden." Tom smiled sweetly, placated by her words, as Sara continued, "It looked so different, it had been transformed into a thing of beauty and I was amazed."

"Dumbstruck too, as I recall," Tom added.

"You said 'Gidday!'" Sara protested. "I wasn't sure if you were being incredibly formal and saying 'Good day', or you thought I was 'giddy' and about to faint or … what." Then she shrugged and admitted, "I hadn't thought about who'd be living here now. I had no idea what to say."

She went on, explaining to Grissom. "Then Tom, never the shy and retiring type as you can tell, continued, 'You're not from around here, are you?' in that accent."

"Hearing him, I shot back, 'I could say the same about you.' Then I realized that sounded kinda sharp, and that my memories weren't his problem. I told him that I used to be from here, a long time ago."

"And you waved vaguely at the house and looked uneasy, so I took pity on you," Tom picked up the story. "I smiled charmingly and admitted I was a transplant, but that I knew just about everyone in the area and had never seen you before."

"What you said was 'I'm pretty good with faces, especially pretty ones, but I've never seen you before.' I was sure it was the worst pickup line ever."

Dale now chipped in, "Lucky for Tom, I arrived home at that stage, and … the rest is history."

Later, when Tom was busy upstairs with Sara, getting her opinion on fabric for new drapes in the guestrooms, Dale filled Grissom in. "We learned the history, what happened with Sara's family here, when we bought the place—it was cheaper than market rates would suggest and after some digging I forced full disclosure from the vendor."

"Tom told me he just had a feeling when he first saw Sara, with her uneasiness, that she was that girl. After Sara left the first time, I asked the old lady two doors down about it, and she dug out some yellowed newspaper clippings, which included Sara's school photo. She hasn't changed much."

Grissom nodded.

"The next time she came we let her know, gently, that we knew her story. She looked … almost relieved." He looked at Grissom and shrugged a shoulder. "We don't talk about it. But she keeps coming back, and it seems to do her some good. It's strange, we only met about five weeks ago, and it's like we've known each other forever." He ended with a small smile. "We love her."

"It was something like that for me, too," Grissom said softly. "When we met, I was teach—" He stopped, hearing laughter as Tom and Sara thundered back down the stairs and sauntered back into the living room. Sara plopped down beside Grissom on the sofa.

Dale quickly changed the subject. "You missed some great fireworks New Year's Eve."

Grissom squeezed Sara's hand. "Yeah, sorry about that. I know Sara was looking forward to them, but I was exhausted so we went straight to bed." That was sort of true, albeit in a roundabout way, he reasoned.

Sara, thinking along the same lines, giggled and then regrouped, saying, "There's another big show for the Fourth of July, right?"

"Yep, sure is."

Grissom smiled. "We'll be here."

xxxxxxx

Too soon Grissom and Sara had to leave. Their bags were already packed and in the trunk, so after fond farewells they hit the road. As Sara backed the car out of the driveway and headed for Highway 1 south, Tom's "Y'all come back now, y'hear!" was ringing in their ears.

"That sounds fairly like a southern accent," said Grissom, amused. "Is there a reason for that?"

Sara snorted. "Oh yeah, of course. He likes to say he's from the South, 'WAY down south'."

Grissom sighed happily, feeling infinitely more cheerful than earlier in the day, despite the fact his flight to Vegas loomed ever closer. "That was great, honey. As you said, they're generous, well-meaning and interested without being intrusive. And entertaining." Tom's infectious good mood, balanced well by Dale's cheerful calm, had set the tone for the meal.

He chuckled at the memory of Tom's outlandish tales, ranging from how he as a boy shepherded 60 million sheep to him forcing Dale, the quiet American, to bungee jump off a bridge on their first date.

Sara's was apparently a mind reader. "Y'know that bungee-jumping story is true." Grissom raised a doubtful eyebrow. "Dale told me. He said he had gone to New Zealand looking for a change, a new challenge in his life, met Tom on the second day and he figured it was meant to be."

xxxxxxx

Grissom dozed a little on the way south, but he came to fully when they were going through Muir Beach. As they turned away from the coast toward the Golden Gate Bridge, he rubbed his eyes wearily and turned to Sara. He was running out of time.

"So … what about Laura?"

With Grissom's question Sara's relaxed post-brunch mood vanished. The very air was instantly charged with tension. Sara gripped the steering wheel more tightly as he shifted in his seat to look at her. Outside the rain was blowing over; inside her emotions stormed. She pressed her lips together and flipped the wipers to intermittent.

"Laura," he repeated. "Your mother. She's one of your ghosts."

Sara shook her head, a quick motion that could have easily been a muscular tic. Grissom sighed. He didn't like doing this, but he was going home in a few hours and he felt he had to try. "You … haven't contacted her yet, or you don't want to talk about it … or …?"

"Both," she blurted, and then looked surprised that she'd spoken.

He let that lie for a few moments, then ventured, "You know … the more, the longer, you think about it, the harder it seems to get." He bit his lip, not wanting to push her, but needing to say this while he had the chance. "Trust me. I have experience in this field." His feeble attempt at levity fell flat so he hurried on.

Grissom rarely swore, but he needed to get Sara's attention. "I fucked up my life—and yours—for years until I finally faced facts and acted, instead of thinking."

It worked.

Quickly checking the rear view mirror, Sara pulled the car off the highway into a parking lot and turned off the ignition. She stared out through the windshield blinking as she tried to find the right words.

"Griss, I … Can we not talk about this right now? I'm not avoiding it, truly I'm not. I--I just need to have these few days of joy with you, so I can keep them in my head, in my heart to keep me strong once you go."

Grissom tipped his head back, bumping it against the head restraint a couple of times then leaned forward, rolling his head to stretch his suddenly taut neck muscles. Decision made, he turned to look at her. What he wanted was for Sara to come back to Las Vegas with him, today. What he said was something else.

"Sara," he grabbed her hand off the gear shift. "Of course, you're right … you have to do it your way. Just … please keep in touch with me. I need to know how you're doing." He swallowed, feeling vaguely sick. "Since you left … it's been hell, not knowing … anything."

Sara squeezed her eyes tight shut, trying to stop her tears from falling. Her voice had vanished, gone with her happy mood. She whispered "I promise."

Grissom took a moment, drawing in a big breath and letting it out slowly. "All right, okay … good." He had done all he could. Time to change the subject. "So … uh … tell me about these classes you're going to teach."

It took a few moments before Sara was calm enough to speak, but gradually they returned to a semblance of conversation and got back on the road. But by the time the airport exit signs started appearing alongside the freeway, they had descended into a morose silence.

Grissom had to clear his throat to say, "Just drop me off at the curb, you don't need to come in with me."

Sara glanced across at him. Grissom had put his impenetrable mask back on, but the tightness of his voice betrayed him.

"Maybe I don't need to, but I _want_ to."

Sara sounded determined, and Grissom didn't want to leave her yet anyway. He accepted without a fight. "I'd like that."

They lapsed into silence again as Sara drove to the short term parking. Check in via electronic kiosk went smoothly, and soon they were by a security zone. As Grissom checked the flight information screens to confirm the gate number, Sara rued the fact that this flight was on time, unlike his incoming one had been.

Grissom shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at his feet, gathering his resolve. Then he raised his head to see Sara's eyes, dark and serious, upon him. "Honey … this is hell for us both. I'm going to go through security, so you can go drop off the rental car."

"But—" she didn't know what to say; she just didn't want to him to go.

He talked over her objection, trying to stay on track. "Then you can go back to your apartment, relax. Why not take a bath, drown a book—you know you like doing that." He was trying to coax a smile from her, but suddenly they were both remembering their bath together.

Sara launched herself at his chest as his arms came up of their own volition to hug her tightly. "I miss you already," she mumbled into his cheek.

He closed his eyes and tried to memorize the feel of her against him, the smell of her hair, how her arms were clutching his head, his shoulders, the hitching of her breath as she fought back sobs.

He clutched her still more firmly, unwilling to break contact. Her tears were soaking through his shirt and he reluctantly let go of Sara with one arm in order to fish his handkerchief from his back pocket. Pressing it into her hand, he stepped back and watched her dry her face. When she would have handed it back to him, he shook his head.

"Keep it." His voice was tight and she could see the emotions swirling in his eyes. "I have more."

"Thanks." Sara gave him a tremulous smile. "Go now, before I decide to keep you here."

Grissom opened his mouth to say something but then changed his mind. Instead, he drew her to him and settled his lips over hers, letting his tongue sweep in to taste her. Pulling back, he let his hand linger on her cheek for a moment longer.

"I love you," he whispered. Then he picked up his bag and was gone.

xxxxxxx

Sara watched from the concourse as Grissom, in a lengthy line, slowly approached the screening machines. She could no longer speak to him, but until he turned the corner into the concourse to go to the gate, she would still be able to see him.

As Grissom was emptying his pockets into a plastic tray by the X-ray machine, he picked up his phone, turned to Sara and waved it at her.

Sara nodded and waved. _Yes, there was always the phone._

xxxxxxx

Waiting for the elevator in the airport parking building, Sara had a complete blank about where she'd parked the car. _Come to think of it, where had she put the parking ticket?_

Grissom had just arrived at the seating area by his gate when his cell phone bleeped, announcing a new text message.

SS: SOS! Seeking one Saturn

He grinned at the phone. It wasn't the first time that Sara had done this.

GG: Sure of situation: level 3, row G

SS: Slick one, Sherlock

GG: Simply observant, sweetie

The car was, of course, where Grissom had remembered. As she reached it, Sara's phone pinged a low battery message. _Great, something else she'd forgotten_. There was no cell service at Nick's Cove, and she had neglected to charge it.

SS: Sedan on spot

GG: Sure of self

She could picture him pursing his lips, trying not to smirk, pleased despite himself of his near photographic memory. Before she'd figured out an answer, he came back again.

GG: Sara otherwise smart

SS: Save occasional slips

Grissom keyed "Sure of Sara"

He looked at that. Sometimes this SOS thing was too restrictive. But, he reflected, he _was_ sure of Sara in every way, so he pressed the green key.

After getting in the car, she sent one last message.

SS: Signing off 4 safety. I love you.

Sara's cell chose that moment to die.

TBC

_Aroha_, the name of the B&B, means "love" in Maori, the language of New Zealand's native people.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title:** SOS  
**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** M/adult  
**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and its characters aren't mine; the story is.  
**Author's note:** Thank you once again to **smacky30** for the much appreciated beta.  
**Summary:** The handkerchiefs are back. GSR

**Chapter 8**

Since she left Las Vegas, Sara had been working on changing her more negative practices, hangovers from her troubled childhood which haunted her still. But there were some lesser things that she had decided just to live with. She had to be realistic; a complete personality change wasn't in the cards.

She readily admitted that she was always not as meticulous as Grissom. As a CSI, her painstaking attention to detail rivalled Grissom's own, but in her personal life it was a different story. Living solo again in San Francisco, she had reverted to an old habit: the thought of doing laundry only crossed her mind when her clothes choices got dire. Because she hadn't taken much with her when she fled Las Vegas, this was now happening with monotonous regularity.

Each time her apparel options shrank to nothing, she remembered Grissom regularly putting loads through the washer and dryer―without fail, no matter how much overtime he was logging, he always did the laundry once the hamper was full, even if he had to blink to focus his bleary, sleep-deprived eyes as he sprayed stain remover or turned the dials. She had never run low on clean clothes while living with him.

But, Sara told herself, she had a good―well, better―reason this time. Her tiny apartment was little more than a drafty attic in a shabby Victorian house with a bathroom converted from a closet. The rest of the building was occupied by her landlord, an eccentric elderly painter. David was entertaining in small doses, and some day soon she would likely give in and accept one of the many over-blown seascapes he kept trying to thrust upon her, but he had made it clear from the start that she would have no laundry facilities.

So Sara had become reacquainted with the dubious joys of laundromat life. Yesterday she'd had that cold walk on Ocean Beach and the warm conversation with Grissom when she was recovering in the Java Beach Café. Today she was out of underwear; it was definitely a laundromat day.

She stuffed dirty clothes into her duffle, emptying pockets as she went. By her count she was missing several handkerchiefs, so she was now searching all the likely hiding spots. One she found in a pocket of the jeans she had on, another two were crumpled in the bottom of her canvas satchel, a fourth was on her nightstand―that seemed to be it.

A final straggler turned up, too late, inside her library book, where it was being a very effective bookmark. She had found it when she opened Schlesinger's _Robert Kennedy and His Times _once the washing machine was under way and she settled down to wait for the cycle to run its course. Sara flipped the red and white gingham cloth to and fro absently as she read. Seeing it in her hand when she looked up to monitor the progress of her wash load, she recalled a fond memory; the charming domestic scene of Grissom standing at the ironing board, working his way through a small stack of handkerchiefs, dividing them into his and hers as he ironed. She smiled as one particular session came back to her, Grissom cocking his head and asking, "Did you ever notice how things get smaller once they've been ironed?"

Sara had frowned; ironing didn't shrink fabric, at least not so you'd notice. She knew he would have a point, but it was escaping her. She tried talking it through. "Well … they look smaller when they're ironed because they lie smooth and flat instead of being rough and crumpled …"

"You're on the right track," Grissom said, a coy smirk on his face. He pursed his lips, savoring the moment. "It's because they've been de-creased."

Even as she shook her head at the memory of the silly pun, Sara was grinning. She put the book down. The load was going through the final throes of the spin cycle, and she had her eye on the good dryer—the one least likely to cook the clothes. She wanted to be ready.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later that evening in Las Vegas Grissom had handkerchiefs on his mind too. He was on the verge of sneezing. He had been on the verge of sneezing for the last five minutes, and had gone so far as to tug his handkerchief part way out of his pocket in readiness for the explosion. Meanwhile he was holding off on fingerprinting a window sill.

He huffed a frustrated sigh and called out to Catherine, "Hhh―". It was so quiet that she, barely 15 feet away, didn't hear him. Clearing his throat, he wondered when it got to feeling so raw, and tried again. "Hey, Cath." This time she looked up, lowering the camera she was using to document blood spatter. "Can we swap?" Grissom waggled his finger between them. "Just the thought of fingerprint dust is making me want to sneeze."

"Uh … sure." Surprised, she looked more closely at him across the shambles that used to be someone's living room. "Are you feeling okay, Gil? It's no more than 55 degrees in here and you look over heated."

Grissom's cheeks were burning and he was sweating rivers down his back, but he told himself it was because he was wearing a nylon wind jacket. His sinuses pounded as he bent down to pick up his kit. He shot a feeble glare at her as he mumbled, "I'm fine."

Catherin rolled her eyes, muttering "Sure you are" as she handed over the camera. "I've done all the protocol shots for markers 1 through 7, so start with―"

"Number 8, I got it," interjected Grissom testily. Then he belatedly focused on his tone and repeatedly apologetically, "Number 8. Thanks, Cath."

Hands on hips, Catherine stood and stared at him for a moment before collecting her brush and jar of fingerprint powder and heading over to the window. "So you've done," she scanned the area, "the table, the door and the door surround."

"Yeah, just the windows to do―" he was going to add "and whatever else looks promising", but a cough rose in his throat, cutting him off. _She knew what to do. _

Crouched down by the low window sill, Catherine narrowed her eyes as she glanced over her shoulder at Grissom. Shrugging lightly, she kept her own counsel.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once her load was safely tumbling in the dryer, Sara knew the time had come. Flipping open her cell phone, she scrolled down through the contacts. There it was: the number she had often stared at over the last three months, but had never phoned. She hit 'send' and held her breath.

Three rings then she heard, "Hi, this is Sandy." A woman's voice, surprisingly deep. When Sara didn't respond, she added, "Hello, who's calling? … Can I help you?"

"Uh … yeah … sorry." Sara gathered herself. "Is Laura there? Laura Sidle? I'm … Sara." She felt exhausted already.

"Sara … Sara, her daughter?"

Sara blinked at the hope she heard in the woman's voice. "Yeah."

"Oh, hon, she'll be so pleased to hear from you." Sandy's enthusiasm gushed. "Hold on, I'll get her."

Sara heard a clunk as the receiver was put down on a hard surface, then steps moving away. Very quickly came the sound of steps returning, and the phone being picked up. She tensed, gripping her cell tightly. "Hon, it's Sandy again. Just wanted to tell you she's down at the end of the garden, so it'll take a minute or two. I'll go get her now." This time she slammed the phone down and her footsteps clattered away.

Sara whispered, "Okay, thanks" to the air and stared blankly into space as she waited. After all her anticipation and nervous preparation for this moment, her mind was blank. She had no idea what she was going to say.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"How did you find me? I haven't been here long."

Their initial conversation had been stilted, but once Sara had something factual to talk about, she felt a little easier. "I started trying seriously last June, while I was recovering from the whole kidnapping thing."

"I did a lot of searching, but in the end it came down to luck. Not in the phone book, no longer at the address given on the electoral roll, long since out of contact with your probation officer―"

"My parole ended seven years ago," said Laura softly, defensively.

"I know, I know it did." Sara had let the frustration of her months-long, fruitless quest come through in her voice, and now she made a conscious effort to relax. But still she felt driven to tell her story. "No recent police records and I couldn't find any bank accounts or credit cards in your name either."

Not for want of trying. She had quietly called in favors from colleagues, and former colleagues, before she left Las Vegas and then later in San Francisco. Despite extensive research, not all strictly legal, they had all drawn a blank. "No stone unturned," she added.

"You're very resourceful, but you couldn't know …" Laura paused, and Sara waited for her. After a moment she was ready to speak again. "I do have a bank account, Sara, but I'm using my mom's maiden name now. Not many people know it though."

Sara felt her jaw clenching tight. She forced herself to loosen it, opening her mouth wide and taking a couple of deep breaths for good measure. Then she laughed, a bitter chuckle. "Laura Greig. That's one variation I never thought of."

It seemed so obvious now. _How did I miss that? Guess I wasn't thinking too clearly at the time. _She remembered her grandmother well; thinking about Grandma Vi sparked a smile, which in turn warmed her voice. "She was a good woman, and strong."

"Mmm … a survivor." Laura sounded wistful. "I always felt weak in comparison to her." Sara was taken aback to hear that admission. Her maternal grandmother had held the family together after her husband was badly injured in a fishing accident when Laura was young.

"She offered to take in us, you know, when …" Laura's voice faded.

Sara knew when she meant. When life with her father had started to go bad. But too soon Grandma Vi had died of a massive stroke. _Laura Greig. It was a fitting homage. _

"So …" Laura's voice broke into Sara's scattered thoughts. "How …?"

Sara shook her head to move past the memories and return to the present day. It was an amazing story, one of those strange but true ones. "I've been volunteering at the Rosalie House Emergency Shelter. I'd only been there a couple of weeks, it was a few days before Christmas, when Jill, from La Casa de Las Madres―" Laura interrupted, "Ohhh … I work there, I know Jill."

"Yeah, that's what she said." Sara was still stunned about the sequence of events. "Anyway, she phoned to say your refuge had received a huge donation of sheets and towels from a store that was going out of business and did we wanted a share in the bounty, and of course I said 'are you kidding?'"

"Of course," Laura echoed.

"When Jill came over the next day she glanced briefly at me, started unloading the van, then did a classic double take." Sara huffed a nervous laugh, remembering that amazing day. "She'd been brisk and business-like over the phone, but now she was staring at me, dumbstruck. I wondered―did I have ink on my face, a messy stain on my sweatshirt, or what? Then I figured that I must've come across her at work, and she was embarrassed to see me again."

Sara paused, wondering how much more detail to give, then she continued, "Long story short, she recognised you in me. She checked with your roommates and found out you'd like to hear from me, and then she gave me your number." She relayed that in a matter-of-fact voice, and was proud of her composure. The gut-churning tumult of that time was still fresh in her mind. Jill and Laura's friends had all promised not to tell Laura, giving Sara the freedom to decide when she was ready. They had kept their word, even as the weeks went by and Sara didn't call.

"Um … that was before Christmas … I—I …" Laura's voice faded way, uncertain. In the silence which stretched between them, Sara could hear Laura's unspoken question― _why did it take you three months? _―shouting out at her. _Forget three months; it had taken her 25 years. _

_Don't look back _, Sara reminded herself,_ move forward_.

"And I've been looking at that number daily for the last three months, trying to work up the courage to call you."

"And today you did."

Sara was at a loss for words, and over the ether she could hear her mother's uneven gasping breaths. But when Laura spoke again, her voice was firm. "Thank you, Sara."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The hoot of the boiling tea kettle roused Grissom from his light doze and he lumbered up from the sofa to tend to it. Soon he was back, adjusting pillows, with his large Cubs mug steaming on the table beside him. As the herbal bags steeped, he peered suspiciously at them, glad he couldn't smell the wafting aroma. He could hear Sara in his head, repeating "allspice for colds, chrysanthemum for fevers". It seemed to him a bizarre mixture, but he could barely taste anything so it hardly mattered. He wasn't sure what he had, but he felt sick enough to have stayed home and put Catherine in charge for the night. _I should tell her. She would want to know. _

GG: Supine on sofa

Sara had been on the point of phoning Grissom. She was burning to tell Grissom her news, but he had started the communication and she could wait a few moments. She knew Grissom didn't have the night off, so she asked, "Sinners on strike?" There was a considerable pause before his answer arrived.

GG: Signs of sickness

He had grumbled about swing shift having "what they call the flu", as he put it, on the phone yesterday. Now that she thought about it, Grissom had coughed a couple of times—at the time she had thought he was skeptical about what she was saying—and his voice had sounded rather raspy. He never liked admitting to normal human frailties, but Sara was determined to find out how he really was.

SS: Shivers outweighing snuffles?

She chewed her lower lip as she waited for his reply.

GG: Sinus overload, sneezing

If he was saying that, there was probably more. Sara thumbed a polite request for more detail.

SS: Specify other symptoms

There was a pause as Grissom considered what to say. He couldn't demand openness from her if he wasn't prepared to reciprocate, but he didn't want to worry her. He ached all over and was shivering hot and cold. If this was "only a cold" as he had kept insisting to Catherine, it was a really bad one.

GG: Spots of soreness

As he waited for her reply, he reflected on how glad he was he'd stayed home tonight. Whatever his malady, the thought of dragging himself around a crime scene or, worse, trying to focus on paperwork was too hard to even contemplate.

SS: Stay on sofa. Sip on sustenance.

Grissom was doing both of those already, although his mind was working too slowly to come up with a good SOS reply.

Sara was concerned about Grissom, but at least he was not trying to work through it. That was major progress for him, and her news could wait no longer―

SS: Something of significance

Grissom blew his nose and when he was done noticed she hadn't elaborated. He swallowed some of his hot tea, wincing at the discomfort in his throat, then sent "spit out, Sara". It lacked finesse, but his head was aching.

He lay back against the pillows he'd propped against the arm of the sofa and massaged his upper cheeks and nose in the faint hope he could relieve the pressure in his sinuses. Just as he was wondering if he had offended Sara, his phone rang: a voice call this time, not a text message.

"I did it, Gil, I did it!"

Elation, relief, fear―a scrambled mixture of emotions jostled behind her excited voice.

Grissom furrowed his brow. He knew he should know what she was talking about, but it escaped him.

_Damn this fog in my brain_.

He was, in turn, relieved when she rushed on, apparently not noticing his lack of response.

"I called and spoke to Laura, and it was … okay. More than okay. She said she understood why I had never visited her after she was sentenced … I don't know"―her confidence wavered―"but she wants to see me. I'm going to dinner there, tomorrow."

"That's great, Sara, wonderful." This had been a long time coming. Whether it went well or not, it was something Sara had to do to help her deal with her long-repressed miasma of feelings from her childhood. She had locked them away, ignored them, for far too long. Refusing to contact her mother in all these years had been a part of it. And now this initial contact she'd made sounded so much more positive than she—and he—had feared. "I'm very proud of you, honey." He stopped to fish his handkerchief out of his bathrobe pocket and wiped his leaking nose.

"Yeah …" Sara was more relaxed now after sharing her news. A little ashamed she'd forgotten to ask, she hurried on, "So, how are you really? If you're staying home you can't be good."

"Eh, I'm not great, but I'll live. It's the bug that's going around. I could work if it was an all-hands-on-deck day, but I'm trying to take better care of myself, as we discussed. Anyway, it's good for Catherine to take charge once in a while."

"Yeah, she'll enjoy that." Sara's dry chuckle bore no malice; she and Catherine had made their peace some time ago.

"You should be really pleased with me." Grissom was pretty pleased with himself. For once he was staying home, looking after his health, rather than slogging on through sickness. "I made my mom's soup and I'm drinking a decidedly weird looking tea."

"Y'mean …?" Hope colored her query.

"Yup, steeped spice and flower petals. The things I do for you." He put drama into his voice as he smirked at the phone, feeling all the better for hearing her voice. The OTC cold medication he'd dissolved in his tea may have also been a factor, but that didn't feed his soul.

Sara bit her lip, unexpectedly overcome by a rush of emotion. It had been a stress-filled couple of days. "You've done so much for me."

Grissom heard the tension in her tone. He could tell she was on the edge of tears. "Hey, don't go maudlin on me," he teased. "I'm sick, remember?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"What the hell is 'walking pneumonia', Gil? I know you, you haven't been to a doctor."

Grissom coughed, and he wasn't putting it on for effect. Well, not much. This was Maddy Klein, after all; she never took 'no' for an answer, at least not without considerable extra persuasion. A little bit of artistic licence might help sway her. Even as he thought that, Grissom knew he was fighting a losing battle. He didn't feel at all well, but somehow here he was in his own loft, watching a video of a now deceased Grand Jury witness, and feeling the inexorable call to duty. But he could make her work for it, and she liked the sport, he knew. No matter what she said, at her core Madeleine Klein was made of the right stuff.

"OK, Maddy, you win." Grissom heaved himself up off the sofa. "Give me 15 minutes; I need to shower and find my suit."

There was a brief silence as she savored her victory. Then—"You only have one suit?"

Grissom's head came around the corner of his bedroom door. "When else do I have to wear a suit?" He watched her wondering about that, and added, "I have one very somber suit I wear for court; it's possible I forgot to collect it from the cleaners."

Maddy was about to comment on that when he took pity on her and gave her a break. "I do have other suits."

TBC

A/N: When I first asked smacky to beta this fic, I sent her chapter 2 and said there would be a couple more. Now here we are at chapter 8 and it's still not quite finished. I did have an outline, but it was very vague and the fleshing out has been more wordy than I expected. Hope you enjoyed the chapter anyway!


	9. Chapter 9

**Title:** SOS  
**Author:** wobbear  
**Story rating:** M/mature  
**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and its characters aren't mine; the story is.  
**Author's notes:** Here endeth the story, with my longest author notes ever. Thank you very much to **losingntrnslatn** for going above and beyond in **smacky30**'s absence. Not only did she do a very speedy and helpful beta, **LiT** also had to read the other eight chapters first in order to do it―all within a very tight timeframe, because I had this fixation I wanted to post the final chapter before the premiere. However, I tweak: any oddities are, of course, my responsibility.  
Many thanks also to **smacky30** for beta-ing all the way from chapter 2, and thank you readers for your patience as I slowly wrote my first actual WIP. I'm very grateful for the many kind comments I've had from readers; I appreciate your feedback more than I can say. And hasn't it been amazing to see just how many SOS phrases are possible?! Now, without further ado―

**Summary:** Scintilla of sadness―story over, sweeties. GSR

* * *

**Chapter 9**

After Grissom unlocked the door, Bruno led the way inside and then waited for his leash to be removed. As the dog wandered off in search of that week's favorite chew stick, Grissom went to collapse onto the sofa. It had been a hell of a first day back at work, and he still hadn't fully shaken off his cold yet. They had only walked the short route today, with no throwing games, as Grissom's energy levels were nowhere near normal yet, and he was feeling a little shaky. It felt good to sit down.

Walking Bruno was a great stress-buster—besides the benefit of the exercise itself, Bruno's doggy delight in sniffing trash cans, lamp posts and other canines' rears never failed to raise Grissom's spirits.

Phone calls about work were generally counter-productive to the feel good factor, so he'd left his cell phone on the coffee table. He was off duty, and he wasn't on call; if the lab needed him, the lab could wait until he got back. This was another facet of trying to take better care of himself.

He was about to relax back on the sofa's squashy leather when the device warbled. Grissom stiffened at the sound. He was truly not in the mood or the shape to be called back to the lab, or out to a crime scene. After taking a moment to steel himself against the possibility, he reluctantly picked up the phone, and warily looked at the screen.

_Ahhhhhh._

_Sara._

Flipping the cell open, he swiveled easily on the leather and lay gratefully down against the pillows. "Hi."

Sara heard the smile in his voice, and could tell that his cold had abated. "How are you doing?" she asked.

"Better. Exhausted, but a lot better. Just came back from a walk with the boy." He paused; Sara was supposed to have met up with her mother the night before. He worried about pushing, but he wanted to know. Softly he inquired, "So, uh, did you see Laura?"

Despite Grissom's trepidations, Sara was eager to speak. _Very._ His careful question unleashed a torrent of words.

First she told of the three other women with whom her mother shared a house: two of them, April and Jane, Laura had met at La Casa de las Madres, and the third was Jane's sister, Dee. The fact that Dee knew Laura from her former job as a prison guard was, she said, just one of those things.

Then, scarcely taking time to breathe, Sara went on to describe how a long, narrow, south-facing yard sloped down the hill from the back door of the house, and how Laura had developed a flourishing terraced vegetable garden there. Sara recounted the steep climb up from the bus stop, the view from the dormer windows on the top story, the color of the walls in the downstairs hallway and how she'd like to paint something that hue too.

As she wound down from a detailed description of the vegetarian chili and spinach salad they'd had for dinner, Grissom decided to venture a direct question on the subject around which she was so deftly skirting. "How was Laura?"

There followed a long silence, broken only by a shaky sound, somewhere between a gasp and a giggle, Grissom thought. He was about to speak again when Sara began. "It's … strange, stupid of me really. She's .. old. Not old old, but, well, she's in her sixties now. I've always thought of her as she was when I last saw her." She sighed audibly and Grissom waited. "She was younger than I am now … when it all happened."

xxxxxxx

Ever since that fateful night when her mother killed her father, Sara's approach had been to knuckle down; to study and work, to set goals, both academic and professional, and to surpass them. Keep working, don't stop to think, to feel. Let the cool clear logic of science be the driver, stick to the things she could examine, understand; emotions and memories were awkward, messy. They would only lead to heartbreak and sorrow.

Refusing to see her mother had been part of that. Sara had been torn by so many conflicting emotions: relief that her father was gone, guilt that she felt relief, regret at the loss of a life and the uncomfortable realization that she was glad it wasn't her. But most of all, she felt grateful and angry, a confusing mix; grateful that the long trial of abuse was over, and angry that it had gone on so long. It was too much to deal with. And so she chose to shut her emotions away, to deny their existence, and by extension, her mother was caught up in that decision. From that stemmed her refusal (the few times she ever spoke of her mother) to refer to her as "Mom". The use of "Laura" was a further distancing, another way to push away the memories.

But they had tarried, lurked, those memories, no matter how hard Sara tried to banish them. They had become spectres floating in her sub-conscious, haunting her sleep.

Sara had also avoided thinking about Laura's feelings, how the whole situation might have been for her. Now she was starting to realize that her mother, too, must have struggled.

xxxxxxx

"So, take a break, have a cup of coffee, whatever, and we'll head back out to the scene in 20 minutes." Grissom paused outside the break room as Nick and Warrick went in, before deciding to follow them. Coffee was a very good idea. It was 2:45 pm and they were well into their second shift.

A messy gang shooting, resulting in multiple casualties, managed to occupy the entire graveyard crew for most of the night and they still weren't finished with the scene. But Grissom had sent them all back to the lab to get the evidence processing started, their kits refilled and to generally give everyone a time out from the gruesome, blood-soaked and trash-strewn alley.

Warrick and Nick sat down, one with a soda, the other coffee, and resumed their episodic chess game. Warrick edged out one of his bishops and then sat back, satisfied. Nick furrowed his brow and leaned forward to squint at the pieces as he considered his options. Warrick watched him for a moment then stretched over to pick up the TV remote. "You look like you'll be a while. I'm gonna check what's happening in the world. Anywhere but here."

Intent on his strategy, Nick just grunted.

Warrick raised an amused eyebrow and turned on CNN. On screen was a shot of the Golden Gate bridge and the voice over was saying "… hit the Bay area at 6:07 am, magnitude 4.1."

Grissom was just lifting his "Entomologists don't bug me" mug, an April Fool's gift from Sara, to his lips when he tuned into the program. It wasn't a big quake, but still.

He lingered for a moment to hear the minimal damage report, and then repaired to his office. Taking a sip of coffee, he wrinkled his nose at the stewed taste. Setting the mug aside, Grissom fished the cell phone out of his pocket and keyed a message.

xxxxxxx

Sara was on a BART train on the way to UC Berkeley. She was working part-time as a pseudo-TA for Frances Hellman, the chair of the Physics department. They had met through a former professor of hers, and Sara was finding the mix of tutoring and research a welcome intellectual challenge. Being able to work, to stretch her mind and skills, without the taint, the pervasive dark shadow of criminal activity was refreshing. So much so that Sara found herself contemplating the possibility of going into academics full-time. This was an ideal entrée, as it also helped pay some of the bills, avoiding too much damage to her savings.

As Sara was ruing the fact she'd forgotten to bring something to read, her phone bleeped. Grissom. _But he should be asleep at this hour._ That meant he was very likely pulling a double and taking a short break to help him stay awake.

GG: Stirred or shaken?

Sara read that and had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

SS: Sense of sentence?

GG: Shivering of soil. Seen on screen.

That doubtless made sense to Grissom, but Sara was none the wiser. Ordinarily she would have simply called him, but she preferred not to speak on her cell while on crowded public transport. It was simply a matter of both privacy and propriety; she didn't like to be overheard or to overhear others' conversations. She could just text him a regular question, but the SOS thing was a fun sort of discipline and she had some time to kill on the train anyway. She thought for a bit.

SS: Still oblivious, sorry.

It was Grissom's turn to wonder how to phrase his next message. He was not at his freshest.

GG: shaking of substratum

Sara squinted at that and looked around the car, hoping that inspiration would strike her. As she did so the train stopped short of the next station, and Sara wondered why.

A woman in medical scrubs across the aisle was reading a newspaper. Just below the _Examiner_‛s banner heading was a black strip with white letters yelling: LATE NEWS: QUAKE HITS BAY AREA EARLY A.M..

_Ahh._ But she hadn't felt it.

SS: Schedule of seism?

The time of the earthquake was one of the things Grissom had heard on the news report, and he had to laugh. It was one of those unbelievable coincidences.

GG: Six oh seven

Sara looked at the answer and snorted quietly. "You have got to be kidding me." Just then an announcement came over the PA to explain that there was a broken-down train on the track ahead of them which needed to be dealt with before they could proceed.

She leaned across the aisle and spoke to the woman with the paper. "Excuse me, but do you know what time the earthquake was?"

"Uh, a little after six, not sure exactly. I had just started my shift." She shrugged. "They may say somewhere in here," she flapped the newspaper, "but I haven't seen it yet."

Sara had gone out for a run about ten to six. It was near the end of April now and the sun rose not long after six, so the brightening sky and street illumination gave sufficient light to see by. Running, it would have been easy to miss the motion of a minor earthquake, and anyway it couldn't have a strong quake, or she would have heard about it—nervous chatter on the Muni or BART trains for a start—before now. As if he were reading her mind, Grissom sent more detail.

GG: Strength of shake: 4.1

SS: Sara out striding. Speed obscured shaking.

"Hey, Grissom." He looked up to see Hodges in the doorway. "I've started on the trace evidence from your gang case, and there's something I think you need to see." The tech simply stood waiting for his supervisor's response, looking earnest and a just little smug. Since the early days, Hodges had somewhat toned down his suck-up routine, for which Grissom was extremely grateful.

"Uh, okay. Give me a minute and I'll join you there." He made a brief waving motion with his hand to encourage Hodges to go back to his domain, and was pleased to see him take the hint.

GG: Sorry, others summoning.

He pressed send and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Then, deciding not to have another sip of the dreadful coffee, he headed to the trace lab to see what Hodges had found.

After seeing that message Sara knew Grissom had gone. The train started to move again, so she put her cell away in her bag. They weren't far from her stop.

The train juddered to a halt once more. Sara started wondering if the earthquake had dislodged the rails. That was a fairly pointless exercise, so she redirected her thoughts. So what if this journey was being held up? She had come a long way since last November.

As she was recovering from her kidnaping, Sara had begun to fear that she was losing herself, that she was being consumed by the relentless grind of crime in Las Vegas. In the midst of her turmoil, the emotions and memories she had ignored for decades could no longer be silenced. After struggling silently with it for months, Sara had realized that she had to find a way to move forward, to confront the ghosts she had so long carried with her. In a perverse way she was almost grateful to Natalie Davis and Hannah West; they had provided the impetus for her to make a move.

Facing up to those ghosts was the hardest thing she had ever done, although leaving Gil to do it ran a very close second.

Gil.

He had been a constant source of loving support since they reconnected with that phone call. She remembered his recent visit, when he was just about over his heavy cold. They had gone again to Tomales, this time staying at _Aroha_. In the lengthening evenings they had played bocce with Tom and Dale on the gravel-strewn sandy strip of soil behind the B&B. And how on a previous trip, in late February, he had met Izzy Tokay. That had been a lively meal.

She recalled, with a quiet sense of satisfaction, how the other day, when talking to Gil, she said, "I had lunch with my mom today." It had just slipped out. Only when she heard his sharp intake of breath, and then after a pregnant pause, his careful voice replying, "Oh yeah? Where did you go?" did she realize what she had done. It would be another leap, she knew, before she would feel comfortable calling Laura "Mom" to her face, but it was a definite sign of progress.

xxxxxxx

"I know what you're trying to do, Captain, your innocent expression doesn't fool me." That was the most the skinny, unshaven man in the sweat-stained Cardinals cap had said since they'd brought him in. He had answered questions with the bare minimum of words, affecting a cool formality that seemed at odds with his shabby appearance.

"I'm just asking what you were doing with a body in the trunk of your car. The way I see it, if you're all-fired innocent as you say, you won't mind telling us what you were doing out by the body farm." Brass paused for a moment, giving the man a chance to speak. He had lapsed back into silence, however, so Brass continued. "Look, Mr Ketterman, the only fingerprints on the car were yours, so unless you have a real good explanation, it's looking bad for you."

Brass shrugged, tilting his head towards Grissom, who was leaning against the wall of the interview room. "You wanna take a crack?"

Grissom shook his head, a quick negative. He was there to take the suspect's clothes for examination, but first Brass was taking a little run at the guy. Grissom wrinkled his nose, thinking with distaste that he would also have to comb the man's greasy looking hair. _Give me an inanimate crime scene any day._

Brass squinted assessingly at Ketterman for a moment before he tipped back his chair, balancing it on the back legs against the wall. He put his hands behind his head and smiled calmly. "Hey, Jerome, you know what? I've got all night. I can wait until you want to talk."

Ketterman glanced uncertainly at Brass, over to Grissom, then back to the police captain. "You can't psyche me out you know. I have a BS in Psychology, I know what you're trying to do," he repeated.

"A BS, huh? Bet you graduated summa cum laude in BS, didn't you Jerome?" Brass was attempting to needle the uncooperative man, Grissom knew. It was often a highly effective tactic.

Ketterman bowed his head for a moment, closing his eyes. From his vantage point, Grissom saw the man shift his feet to either side of his chair, and the bunching of his hands under the table. "Uh, Jim—"

At that instant the man exploded into action, leaping up and pushing Brass over onto his side. Brass's chair went flying into the glass door, the pane shattering but staying in the frame. Grissom tried to drag the suspect off of Brass, but Ketterman had hold of the policeman's hands and was trying to pummel him with his own hands, all the while saying in a rigidly controlled voice "It's. A. Bachelor. Of. Science. You. Bozo." For such a slight man, he had a tenacious grip.

"Murphy, get in here!" yelled Grissom, exasperated that the officer outside the door made no move to enter the room.

Backup soon piled in and unceremoniously bundled the suspect away to a cell to cool off. Brass had managed to avoid punching himself, but bruised his shoulder when he hit the floor. He fingered it gingerly as Grissom righted the chairs.

Watching him, Grissom remarked, "You need to get that checked out." Talking over Brass's protest that it was nothing, he continued, "We need to have the injury documented."

Brass nodded, conceding the point, then cocked his head and smirked wryly at Grissom. "Ya know, that teasing tactic usually works. Sometimes I wonder if I'm losing my touch."

"C'mon, I'll buy you a cup of coffee and we can call Doc Robbins to see if he is available to look at your shoulder." He held the door open, waving Brass through.

xxxxxxx

"So, is Brass all right?" asked Sara.

"Yeah, he says he won't be re-painting his house anytime soon, but somehow I don't think he was planning to re-decorate." Grissom's voice became serious. "And the suspect will be cuffed and shackled for the next interview."

"Plus at least one officer in the room, I hope."

"Mmmm. So, that's a re-cap of my day. What've you been up to?"

"Well, this afternoon I helped Laura weed her veggie patch. And we talked." Laura had talked a lot. About how if there had been a battered women's refuge in reach of Tomales Bay at the time, Sara's father might still be alive; how hard it had been not to see Sara all those years, but how she had respected Sara's choice; about how pleased she was that had finally made contact. Sara talked about her helplessness at the time, how she had felt abandoned afterwards and about the life she had later made for herself, and her recently-found happiness with Grissom.

Sara told Grissom all of this, and then fell silent.

"Sara?" He knew not to prod her too hard around the subject of her mother, but someone had to say something.

"She said 'you can't change the past, but you can shape your future'. Sound familiar?" Her tone was wry.

Grissom had been saying something very similar to Sara for the past eighteen months. He smiled at the phone and said, "You know, she sounds like a wonderfully wise person. I'd like to meet her."

Sara shook her head, grinning. "Oddly enough, she said pretty much the same thing about you."

xxxxxxx

Sara's cell phone vibrated, shuddering across the scratched oak surface of the nightstand in her attic room. She groaned as she came to, clambering to consciousness out of a bizarre dream. She had meant to turn her cell off before she went to sleep, but had obviously forgotten.

_It was still dark outside._ Probably a wrong number. Rolling over, she picked up the phone, flipping it open and clamping it to the side of her face in a practiced move. "Sidle."

Hearing nothing, she brought the phone in front of her face, and squinted at the glowing screen. It was Grissom's number. Suddenly Sara's heart was pounding in her throat. _Something was wrong._ "Gil? Gil! Talk to me!"

"Sara." His voice was low, husky, infinitely sad.

Sara tensed, asking urgently, "Are you OK?"

"Okay?" Grissom sounded like he didn't know the meaning of the word.

"Griss?" Sometimes only the old nickname got through to him. She heard an enormous sigh, and waited.

"Sara … oh, Sara." He was despairing; something terrible must have happened. "Uh, yeah, I'm OK. But … Warrick … he's been shot. It's really bad, honey." His voice broke at the end and Sara squeezed shut her eyes, feeling his pain. _Warrick._

As she listened to his choppy breathing, Sara knew what she had to do.

END


End file.
